


From God's Perspective

by Unfortunately



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blasphemy, Canon Continuation, Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Dysfunctional Family, Eventual Happy Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Jewish Omens, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Multi, Original Character(s), Reunions, Self-Indulgent, Unofficial Sequel, god is a woman, some violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2020-05-31 15:40:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19429003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unfortunately/pseuds/Unfortunately
Summary: It is with great trepidation that the following scene is described:Aziraphale, Principality of the East Gate and holy angel who-hath-prevented-Apocalypse, owns a bookshop in London. It’s no surprise that he is here, as he owns the place. Currently, he is trying to soothe Crowley, Demon of Hell and Apocalypse-preventor-in-crime. Crowley is ablaze with anger, two fingers out to mimic guns, which are pointing at Gabriel, Archangel-in-charge and micromanager of Heaven, and Beelzebub, Lieutenant of Satan and Lord of the Flies.--God pops in for a visit with twinkling eyes and unclear intentions. After a brief intervention and a spot of tea, She sets to unfolding, unravelling, and tending to a future that may or may not be the next chapter of the daunting, ever-looming, and great Ineffable Plan.





	1. Intervention

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!
> 
> This is the first fic I've ever posted on AO3. It's incredibly self indulgent and possibly blasphemous according to my own religion but what the hell, life's short. I've been on this site for about five years now and I've been writing fanfiction for going on ten. I have a lot, I've just never posted anything, because frankly, I've been scared. I don't know, just feels like a lot is different from my ffnet days.
> 
> I'm reserving the right to change this fic as it goes, meaning backpedalling, because I'm just having fun with this, so I'll mention if something changes in a note. Probably just minor stuff.

It is with great trepidation that the following scene is described:

Aziraphale, Principality of the East Gate and holy angel who-hath-prevented-Apocalypse, owns a bookshop in London. It’s no surprise that he is here, as he owns the place. Currently, he is trying to soothe Crowley, Demon of Hell and Apocalypse-preventor-in-crime. Crowley is ablaze with anger, two fingers out to mimic guns, which are pointing at Gabriel, Archangel-in-charge and micromanager of Heaven, and Beelzebub, Lieutenant of Satan and Lord of the Flies.

You see, while both the offices of Heaven and Hell had been shaken during the respective trials of Aziraphale and Crowley, they had never promised they were going to leave them alone for long. In fact, shortly after the two had switched their bodies back, a spy from each was assigned by their superiors to follow, monitor, and report on the activities of the angel and the demon. When it was reported back that the two were completely, utterly, head-over-heels in love… well, neither side were happy. Lucifer himself wanted an audience with Crowley – what he wanted from that, Hell knows. As such, Beelzebub was dispatched. Gabriel, in a string of actions that were beginning more and more to look like a pattern, decided that he was to speak to Aziraphale himself about what he considered an add-on to a lengthy list of misdeeds.

Thus, we find a stand-off.

Yes, truly trepidatious…

…

I don’t think you quite understand. Up until this scene, I have had complete control. There is no scenario on mine Earth that I do not have full control over, should I choose to intervene, lest there be Hellish input. However, I seem to find myself thoroughly out of control here. I would intervene from up here, if I could. Simply put, I cannot. An impossible task for a being that created the universe!

Pardon me, I’m rambling.

Hello, I am God.

…

I’m going to have to go down there.

-

She lands in the park across the way, a simple pop into existence. She’s manifested a body not unlike the appearance She’s taken to inhabiting in Heaven since around 2021 B.C.: a young woman, dark-skinned with a warm undertone, hair short, cropped, and coily. Nothing fancy for Her clothing of course, typical London wear for this time of year, a nice puff jacket for the weather does the trick. In Her haste, She does not properly prepare for the consequences of Her mere presence on mortal beings, and this along with the fact that She has never actually walked the earth Herself, accidentally grants two prayers. Little Mollie Carson down the street will be receiving a package any moment containing a puppy and a kitten, just for her, and Mildred Coppworth’s nail gun miraculously unjams after thirty minutes of desparation.

-

Crowley growls.

“I’ll give you to the count of three.”

Beelzebub cracks a knuckle, then another, readying for a fight.

“One.”

“Crowley, please, just –”

“Two!”

The shop rumbles from his anger, and Gabriel sets his feet firmly to the floor.

“Th –”

And then the bell above the shop door opens.

Crowley’s hands drop behind his back in a heartbeat and he rolls back on his feet, as if he is hiding real weapons from the intruder. The others… stare. Aziraphale was absolutely certain that he had locked the door when the other two had arrived.

“I’m terribly sorry miss, I’m certain that I had locked the door. I’m afraid that we’re closed!” Aziraphale moves towards the door, and then stops dead in his tracks.

She says nothing. For a moment, She basks in his love, and his light. He is perfect. Of course he is, he is Her angel. But there, tucked in a corner, is a love that burns just as brightly as it does for Her. He imbibes in good wine, he indulges in good food, he helps his neighbor hang a painting, and he watches the humans from a park bench and smiles, and he laughs with his human friends at a table together. Oh, he loves the humans. But he loves Crowley even more. Six thousand years of almost-there, six thousand years of pining and heat and hearts and ** _love, love, love_**.

She smiles softly, love for Her angel bubbling through Her until She laughs.

“I don’t know what this is, but we really must get on with business. Please exit the establishment,” Gabriel says, just a bit too loudly. Condescendingly. She notes his tone.

“That’s enough, Gabriel.” He starts.

“I’m sorry? Are… You’re from Home Office?” He doesn’t feel… anything from Her. She notes this as well.

“You don’t recognize your own Mother?”

The tone of the room changes like a train has run through it. Beelzebub shrieks like a banshee and attempts to shrink into the floor. God does not allow it. Crowley starts to look for ways out, moving towards the window on the side of the street. She gives him a soft, pointed look, and does not allow this either. Gabriel drops to the floor in a bow, attempting to kiss Her puff jacket on its hem where it hits the floor. She absolutely does not allow this, gesturing with Her right hand to bring him to standing attention.

Aziraphale stands in the middle of the room, looking so scared and sad and happy and pained at the same time. She turns Her attention back to him.

“Hello, my love.” He lets out a strangled ‘oh!’ as Her words seep deep, deep down into him. They scratch an itch that he didn’t even know that he had, and he is desperate for more. She comes to him, bringing Her hands to his cheeks as to bring their foreheads together. Their respective loves thrum together, a boil/simmer/settle in simultaneous existence. His loves for humans and Crowley run deeper than She saw at first glance, the two informing each other throughout the millennia. In return, She shows Her love for him, for Her other angelic children, and then for the humans. Compared, their love for humans are nearly identical.

They stand in silence for some time, the three other supernatural beings watching the exchange (with Beelzebub stuck half in and half out of the floor). When She pulls away, saddened and happy and full of love, She breaks the silence.

“I think it’s time we all had a little chat.[1]”

* * *

[1] If Beelzebub seems to start to struggle to get away as God says this, She can’t say that She saw it. Or, perhaps, She pretended not to.


	2. Sunday in the Park with...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four supernatural beings walk into a bookshop.

Gabriel almost didn’t want to believe it.

It was dusk in St. James Park. The demon Crowley and the angel Aziraphale had taken it upon themselves to have a stroll, watch the ducks, and grab a bite nearby. With just their pinkies entwined, they chattered about everything and nothing, meeting each other’s gaze with adoration[2].

“Dizzzpicable.”

“Indeed. Hello, Beelzebub.”

“Gabriel.” Beelzebub stepped from behind Gabriel to his side, tossing some bread (poisoned) to the ducks paddling in the water. Together, they watched as an angel and a demon fell a little bit more in love. Beelzebub thought back to the last time the two had spoken on the Tadfield Air Base, then said, “Just to be frank, if you dare stoop to my height again, I’ll break your neck.” Gabriel pursed his lips.

“Noted… You know, somewhere in me, really, really deep down, I wanted our intel to be incorrect.” Crowley, across the park, dropped his head onto Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale looked to the heavens and laughed from his gut at something Crowley had said. “One of ours and one of yours. Together. Has the universe gone mad?”

“Unfortunately, no. You would know, you were there.” Beelzebub paused. “This has been a badly kept secret among us demons for quite some time.”

“What?”

“Yep.”

“You knew about this?” Gabriel looked at the demon with his nose crinkled in disgust.

“In a way. Like I said, ‘badly kept secret’. We didn’t try him for it during the trial since we didn’t know, and we didn’t ask either. You know, Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was one of ours.”

“Thought that one was just the humans.”

“One of our more sadistic brethren. Now if you want evil humans, Hitler and the like, you won’t even find them in our place. Nope,” Beelzebub whistled, mimicking a spiral outward from where the two stood, “straight to Purgatory.” Gabriel shuddered. Purgatory belonged to the Horrors, nowhere near their domain. Though, it might be satisfying to kick Aziraphale through to Purgatory, he thought.

Crowley and Aziraphale stood, then began to make their way out of the park. Beelzebub and Gabriel followed.

“How do you reckon you’ll be punishing your angel? Given the… circumstances.” Gabriel sneered at Beelzebub.

“How we see fit.”

“Come on now, gotta get creative without the hellfire. Us too, without the use of holy water.” Gabriel glanced at Beelzebub. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” This was said in a taunting tone with a swing of Beelzebub’s hips.

“Fine. I came here on my own to speak with Aziraphale, speak with him about his actions. Seems like it’s too late. We’ve been considering alternatives to hellfire.”

“Do tell!” Beelzebub said sadistically.

“The consensus is to take his wings, if it’s even possible,” he said, indifferent. Beelzebub stopped short, looking at Gabriel with wide eyes.

“That’s… terrible.”

“Indeed.”

“Gabriel, that’s not…” Beelzebub struggled to find the words. What Beelzebub wanted to say was that it was wrong. That it was downright monstrous. To think an angel would do that to another angel…

“I showed you mine.” He gestured for Beelzebub to continue walking. They were losing their targets. Beelzebub hesitated, but fell in step. Surely Gabriel was lying. Of course, that would be a logical explanation. No way in Heaven would an angel, let alone an archangel, ever do what he was suggesting.

“Lord Satan has requested an audience with Crowley. He will see to a fit punishment… However,” Beelzebub paused as to cause apprehension, “I have convinced my Lord to take his eyes.”

-

As soon as they got into the shop, Aziraphale pinned Crowley against the end of a bookcase. Hard.

“Hello, love.”

Aziraphale kissed Crowley with the passion of a thousand suns[3]. They were still learning this – still learning each other, both body and mind. Every kiss was burning fire and agonizing heat, desire and love and tension and release—! He wanted more, needed more. To Crowley, kissing Aziraphale was home – a warm hearth, a welcome, a ‘stay here’… It was everything.

If Crowley hadn’t cracked his eyes to look at Aziraphale, he wouldn’t have seen the intruders. Crowley broke the kiss and pushed Aziraphale behind him, bracing the bookshelf that he had previously been pressed against and the one across the aisle to create a faux barrier with his arms and body.

“What the FUCK are you doing here? Hadn’t we both told you to leave us alone?”

“Yeah, thing is, Heaven never promised a long break, and according to Beezley over here—”

“DON’T call me that!”

“—Hell never promised that either.” Gabriel mocked a frown. “Aww. So sad.”

“Crowley, don’t do anything drastic.”

“Like what, angel?” Crowley raised his hands, “This too drastic?”

“We don’t even know what they’ve come for! Gabriel, what—”

“No, he’s right. You’re to be punished for… _fraternizing_ with the likes of this hellspawn.”

“He is no _hellspawn_ , Gabriel! He is fallen!” Oh, that made sense. Something about the damned being did look familiar to him, but it didn’t matter.

“I’m to bring you to court, Crowley,” Beelzebub said, “for the same reasons.”

“And what? Kill me with holy water? Kill him with hellfire? It worked **_so well_** last time!” Gabriel sneered at Crowley.

“The chayot hakodesh have judged Aziraphale for his doings, and we will remove his wings.” Beelzebub froze in place, the violent realization that Gabriel hadn’t been joking or otherwise not telling the truth hitting Beelzebub like a cup of holy water to the face.

The fear Aziraphale felt in his core was almost as paralyzing as the terror he had felt on Tadfield Airbase as he had stared Crowley in the eyes, realizing that it might be the last time unless they did something. “Who are you to judge me? Only God Herself can judge me!” Aziraphale darted his eyes around, trying to find some way out, trying to think—!

Crowley cocked the imaginary guns and began to count down.

* * *

[2] Even with Crowley’s glasses, Aziraphale knew that this was the case. He felt that same radiating warmth that he had felt just that morning, when Crowley had reached to his cheek with a soft hand and pulled him into a chaste kiss whilst Aziraphale was frying up a full English.

[3] This is, indeed, how Aziraphale would describe this kiss. And other kisses. All of them. (As long as they were with Crowley.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter before Monday for a bit of bridge-building!
> 
> (if this showed up in your notifications 10 times I am so sorry, something was happening with the formatting of the notes and I was trying to fix it!)


	3. Last Supper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A heart, a dance, and a bite to eat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some minor body-horror-esque stuff! If you need some accommodation around this or some explaination before you read I'm more than willing help out in that way, just reach out to me!

The best conversations, in God’s eyes, are always held over a meal. Once, in 623 B.C., a monk had astral projected into Her throne room. After a riveting conversation over a bowl of rice, She had bestowed minor godhood upon him, and She was still quite impressed with the spread of Buddhism across the Earth.

Not daring to interfere with England’s economy, She asked Aziraphale to spot Her a bit of money, then sent Gabriel to pick up an order of Chinese food from around the corner with strict instructions to not come back without everything on the list. With some minor backups in the kitchen, that would give Her some time to speak with Aziraphale and Crowley in privacy. Relative privacy. Beelzebub was still here, freed from the floor but still searching for an exit with shifty eyes and buzzing spies.

“I do not expect you to keep any of this from Lucifer if you are afraid of me. In truth, I would like it if you stayed.”

Beelzebub chokes, letting out a strangled, “Wh-why?!”

“I think that it’s time for Lucifer and I to settle our differences…” Beelzebub’s eyes widen. Was this it? The true apocalypse? A meeting between God and Satan themselves, on Earth’s crust. Oh, the war would be mighty – “… talk things out.”

What.

“That, and I’ve missed you very much Beelzebub.”

What?

God moves from where She was standing with swift, confident steps, bringing a hand to stroke at Beelzebub’s cheek.

What? NO!

Beelzebub flinches hard, stumbling backwards into a pile of books before Her hand can reach out and touch any skin. Beelzebub had heard of the consequences of angel skin touching demon skin – in fact, Beelzebub isn’t even sure of how Crowley and the angel can stand holding hands, those bastards. Pain, boils, burning flesh, all normal sights in Hell – but all too unappealing when the word ‘holy’ was tacked on as the reason for them. God stops and drops Her hand.

“If you do not want me to touch you, I will not. I assure you though, I will not hurt you with my touch.” Beelzebub looks at Her hand by Her side. Then Beelzebub looks at God’s face. Then Her hand, then Her face again. Once more for good measure. Beelzebub nods.

God strokes Beelzebub’s face, and Beelzebub is home once more.

-

“What do you mean you’ve run out of lemon chicken? What part of the recipe could you possibly be out of when it’s your top seller? The lemons?! Well, would you look at that, a whole crate full of lemons right behind that counter back there. Completely understandable how you missed it even though it’s in full sight of almost everyone in the kitchen. I’ll be needing that lemon chicken.”

-

Beelzebub is on the floor in front of where God sits on Aziraphale’s couch, face in God’s lap, basking in Her grace. Even if Beelzebub could listen fully to the conversation happening, it would be the last thing that Beelzebub would want to do in this moment. Beelzebub’s Mother’s touch radiates love, all for Beelzebub in this moment, and Beelzebub is starving for it. Beelzebub _craves_ it, _needs_ it, is _desperate_ for it. Oh, Beelzebub has missed Her so very, very much. Beelzebub loves Her right back.

“Mother…” Aziraphale speaks first, quiet as a mouse. God perks, turning Her attention from Beelzebub. She notes Crowley, who is standing behind the couch that Aziraphale sits on, and is very pointedly looking out the window, definitely not paying attention to Her, no, not at all. She strokes Beelzebub’s hair and moves Her eyes slowly from Crowley to Aziraphale.

“I want to first commend you two on your work with the Apocalypse. You did very well.” Aziraphale jumps, and sputters like a tea kettle.

“Th- I am – um – th – I – please, don’t th – Crowley –” The demon looks from the window to Aziraphale. God chuckles. Even in this one look, there is so much love.

“Calm down, angel.” All at once, all nervousness melts away, as if it was one of Her commands instead of Crowley’s. It’s incredible! She has never seen anything like this.

“I’ve never seen anything like this before.” Aziraphale turns to look at Her, and after a moment Crowley reluctantly does the same the same. “It is true, I haven’t. I’ve seen everything, from every millennia. I have never seen something like this before.” Crowley seems unnaturally tense as She says this. “I am also here to give my blessing upon your love, in whichever form of blessing you wish for it to be in.”

Aziraphale gasps, clutches at Crowley’s hand on the back of the couch. God’s blessing, in the traditional sense of the term, is a favor of an act or object. What God means by Her blessing here is complicated, to say the least. To put it simply, both Crowley, a demon, and Aziraphale, an angel, have choices in the matter of their very being. She’s God! She can do anything, give them anything – make them anything. Her power at their hands. She explains Her gift with a soft smile and lets their imaginations run with the possibilities. Crowley’s teeth grind together like a knife on a fine grit sharpening stone.

“Why?” He pauses, waiting for Her to answer. She stays silent in his gaze. “WHY?!” He bellows, moving around to the front of the couch to get in Her face.

His anger reminds Her of another’s. She half expects a downpour, but She knows that it’s still a gloomy London day outside.

“Crowley, really!” Crowley’s head snaps back to Aziraphale, stern in his words. God closes Her eyes and takes a deep breath. Then another. Slowly, Crowley’s breath begins to match Hers. He knows that She is doing it, very obviously. His body language screams under the influence of the Almighty. He says jack shit about it, though begrudgingly. That one look at Aziraphale was all it took to convince him to go along. Sappy little demon.

“Come sit, Crowley.”

He stares at Her inviting hand for a minute before obliging, carefully stepping over Beelzebub. Then, they stare at each other.

“You had questions.”

“Why now?” he asks.

“You had questions, and I could not answer them, and you followed Lucifer,” She paused, looking into his glasses and meeting him with a steady gaze., “and I chose not to do anything about that.” The redhead looks just about ready to throw hands. “Above all, I value your, and human, free will. That’s why I…” She trails off, trying to see where the conversation will go. Nowhere good, if She continues along this vein. “Crowley, I must ask you to put your blind faith into me.” She holds Her hands to him palm up and waits. Crowley looks at Aziraphale. The angel, hands squeezing a cup of tea (that’s seemingly appeared out of nowhere and probably has) tightly, gives him a blank look. It’s up to Crowley. The demon looks back to God, and without a word, forcefully grabs Her hands, bringing them to his head.

He expects a sensation much more unpleasant than the lick of hellfire on an angel’s skin, something that will melt. What he feels, instead, is a sinking sensation deep in his true form’s soul.

-

Crowley recognizes this place.

They’re among the stars. It’s been so long since he’s seen them up close like this, and he swears, for just a moment, that one of the red dwarfs far away winks at him as if to say, ‘welcome home’. He’s alone, and he realizes that his true angelic form as been propelled into the deepest depths of space without his corporation as he looks up, up, up at the Pillars of Creation. He feels the memory of the greens and oranges and blues and colors unimaginable to the human eye in his soul, and he wants to reach out for more.

“Do you remember?” Her voice echoes, filling everywhere at once. He spins around, expecting to see Her. He is met with empty space.

 _“Where are you!? I can’t find you!”_ His own voice echoes through space, though he’s said nothing. _“Angel! ANGEL!”_ This time he recognizes his own despairing pleas as the ones he had screamed in Aziraphale’s burning shop.

He had felt like he was dying, then.

“Do you remember when last you cried like that?”

“ _Please! I have to find him!”_ Crowley’s voice sounds again.

“Don’t, please…” It comes out as a croak, unused to speaking in this form.

_“Lucifer! Lucifer, where are you! LUCIFER!”_

He had fallen. Lucifer had fallen and he was too late.

_“Father, Father please! I have to— no, Father, please! He’s just confused! He just wants an answer!”_

He remembers begging his Mother to help, to fix what had been broken, to find, to hold. He remembers begging his Mother to let him help. He remembers the cold, dark descent, less a fall and more a stroll or hike. He remembers a river, he remembers the dripping heat, and he remembers coming to the crater where his brother had landed, hot lava and phosphorous rock forming something New. He remembers Belial – that is, Beelzebub – crouched over the black tarred Lucifer, clawing at the asphalt glued to his skin, stopping, meeting his eyes with a harried look. He remembers dressing Lucifer’s wounds with fire, vicious hot licks of healing power that he wasn’t used to. He remembers Lucifer taking his throne, a splash of lava rock frozen in time made from the force of his impact. He remembers the realization that he could not return from whence he came.

“You didn’t stop me. If you loved me – if you loved any of us, you would have stopped us.”

Suddenly, She is in front of him.

“I LOVE you Crowley!” She looks desperate, clutching at Her own dress tightly and half-bent at the waist, as if Her own love is hurting Her.

“Then why won’t you call me—!” He cuts himself short, gritting his teeth together almost hard enough to crack them in twain.

Without warning, God plunges a hand deep into his chest, wild and with abandon. Her face is wide and open in a way he has never seen before; a fine, translucent pink mist seeps from Her orifices, Her chosen form blinking in and out of being like a glitch on a computer screen, Her form becoming something on the very brink of incomprehensible. In this moment, he is sure that She is going to finally kill him. He nearly screams as She tugs, the tension of whatever She is pulling out with Her hand making him wish that he was dead, and all he can think is ‘Aziraphale!’ His vision turns blotchy white, and he is certain that he’s about to lose consciousness. Then, just as quickly as it started, it’s over, somehow almost as if it never had happened in the first place. If metaphysics would allow for Crowley to faint dead to the ground, he would. Silence.

God examines Crowley’s heart arduously, grinning with the beginnings of something seemingly maniacal. With a flick of Her wrists, She spreads his heart for him to see. Separated, it’s cogs and gears, furry tails and snake scales, flesh, glass shards, mushrooms, sea water, the concept of gusto, plant cuttings, little orbs of light that flicker ‘hello’ in Morse code, some parchment paper, a small quill, and on the circumference, a thin layer of slime. In the middle of all of this sits a small, but not insignificant, tangled ball of snakes. His core. God gestures for the ball of snakes to come to Her, untangling with gentle fingers. With a fistful of unruly snakes in one hand, She reveals something that looks almost like a small, black gemstone – but maybe just a little bit to the left. She holds it to Crowley.

“Do you see the heart of Crowley, the demon?” She asks.

“I…,” his voice cracks, “I don’t understand…”

“Or,” She continues, “do you see the heart of Raphael, the Archangel?”

Crowley looks around at the bits and bobbles.

“I sowed your heart, my child, as the dust stormed and the fire shook while my Universe twisted into being, as I taught Lucifer, molded Metatron, cut the shapes of Michael, designed Uriel, and conceived Gabriel. I know your heart. Your heart yearned from the moment I breathed you into life. It ached for something that I could not give. You loved so fiercely, so wickedly, so **_freely_** , my angel, you have always been so different!” Her joyful smile fades, and She fixes him with a sorrowful, intense gaze. “Even different than Lucifer.”

She holds the core of his heart between them.

“Listen.”

Not even the quietest place on Earth could compare to the deafening silence that the two wait in.

Then, like the sweetest of bells, Aziraphale’s laughter peals through the air.

Crowley doesn't notice when he begins to weep. His heart pieces back together: snakes re-tangling, tails and orbs and concepts alike meeting in Her hands, as it did so long ago. In one arm, She pulls him in for an awkwardly-fitted hug. With the other, She sinks his heart deeper, deeper, deeper… and he finally feels at home again. “Six thousand years ago, before you left for Hell, that would have been me. You haven’t replaced your love for me with Aziraphale’s, that would be impossible, but he… he comes first.”

“Why… why did you…” He trails off weakly, sniffling slightly behind the tears.

“I needed you to see. You’ve been saying that you two are on your own side – I’ve watched you say it, don’t even try to deny that – but I know that you did not truly understand what that meant, Raphael.” She pauses. “You have made choices that have led us all to where we are now. You helped Lucifer when I could not. You tempted Eve with the apple. You fell in love with Aziraphale—”

“That was no choice!” He grumbles.

“—and you leaned into his love when you could have rejected it.” She brings a hand to his cheek and kisses him gently on the forehead. He feels a warmth spread through him that feels oh so familiar, and he knows it’s been too long, far too long since he’s felt this. “You did it all without me, and you don’t have to anymore. I’m here.” The same warmth tells him that this is true – and of course, this is God, why would She lie? “I’m sorry for tearing your heart out, my beloved.”

“I want to go home.”

“Let’s.”

-

Aziraphale is left alone for a tic. Well, again, relatively. Beelzebub snores from God’s lap, oblivious to Her slumped form. He takes his time to nurse his tea, contemplate his situation, and when a fly trespasses into his personal space, he swats it. Beelzebub wakes with a start.

“Oi!”

“Oh! Erm, I’m terribly sorry.” He looks to the fly in his hand, saying a hasty prayer, then… offers it to Beelzebub questioningly? Beelzebub plucks it from his hand and does a little trick of the hands, the fly landing right in Beelzebub’s mouth. Beelzebub crunches on it, grinning. “Heavens above,” he says, perturbed.

“Nothing but Hell here, you heinous thing.”

“I am as much heinous as I am American!” Aziraphale retaliates, “Though I suppose I’m about as British as the Betsy Ross when it comes down to it. Say,” he continues, “what do you think She really came down from Heaven for? It can’t’ve just been for… us. For these circumstances.”

Their Mother, forehead pressed against Crowley’s, is here. On Earth. With them. For some reason. Aziraphale had been thinking: why had She come, when She could have so easily intervened from above? They _had_ just put a kibosh on the Apocalypse only a week ago, so perhaps… well… Aziraphale doesn’t want to speculate about that quite yet.

“Maybe She’s really my Lord Satan in disguise. Or, even better, this is all a hallucination of divine cause. Or! Or we’re dead, and this is our Afterlife. Could be even that She’s just using this as an excuse to nip out and have a drink or two. I don’t fucking know, you wanker, and I don’t really care. I’m just going to go along for the ride.” Beelzebub settles into a comfortable position, kicking feet onto the coffee table in a move that Aziraphale can only describe as 'extremely clutzy'. Aziraphale gently nudges them off, giving a stern look.

Just then, Crowley raises from his position like a corpse coming to life – stiff, slouched, and eerie. God gracefully stands from Her place, mimicking the act of dusting off Her dress (though there is certainly no dust, nor any reason to do this), and turns towards Crowley.

“Understand now, love?”

“Definitely not.”

“Good enough!” She laughs.

Crowley looks to Aziraphale, and, after a beat, says, “I love you.” It’s soft and kind, just like Aziraphale, and the angel melts a little bit. He’s not sure what’s happened, but something in Crowley has changed, if only marginally.

“As do I you.”

“My name is… was… Raphael.” Ah. There it is. Aziraphale knows that he wears his heart on his sleeve, so before Crowley can take any modicum of change on his face as anything negative, he slides to the floor in front of him and takes his hands in his.

“My name is Aziraphale.”

There’s something so profound about just that statement. So intimate. Wholesome. Crowley pulls Aziraphale in for a kiss.

God lets them share the moment, then pipes up.

“I’m feeling a bit peckish. If Gabriel doesn’t return soon… perhaps some tea and biscuits?”

“I wholeheartedly agree!” Aziraphale breaks from the kiss, looking pleased as punch. God’s smile spreads across Her face, and She giggles. Giggles! At something that he said!

“Ah, Crowley, I did have one more question. What did you do with that staff of yours?” God asks. Crowley pauses.

“Ah. It’s… Must be around somewhere, haven’t had much chance for its intended use and such—”

“No.”

“It’s back at my place, I’m sure of it—”

“Nope.”

“Had to have just misplaced it somewhere down in Hell—”

“You’re a terrible liar, Crowley.”

“I gave it away!”

“You what?!” God and Aziraphale chorus together, and a soft knock at the door signals Gabriel’s return. He enters sans reply carrying a plethora of brown paper bags, struggling to hold both them and the heavy wooden door.

“You would not _BELIEVE!_ what I had to do to get this here all in one piece!”

-

There are whispers up in heaven. Not gossip, no no, gossip would be far too sinful for the seraphs. But talk, that’s never been a bad thing!

They say that God is no longer in heaven. Aeiel, a guard at God’s Gate, says that they no longer feel Her presence. They say that the Metatron has disappeared. Valaen, a simple cherub, tried to contact the Metatron only to be met with white hot static. They say that management has gone radio silent. Faneuil, Gabriel’s assistant, has heard nothing from the angel since he left for Earth, basking in the relief of not needing to respond to every little complaint about his trips via pager. Of the others, Faneuil could care less! They say that an angel and a demon – the same who thwarted Heaven’s victory! – are in love! Wendiel, a bright-eyed young messenger, says that she once caught them consorting while delivering a message to Aziraphale in 1952 A.D. They say! That God! Is with **them**. Vretil, God’s recordkeeper knows where She is, and has told the angels ze is closest to, which of course means that all of Heaven knows.

Alright, so it’s gossip. What’s She going to do about it?

-

Crowley slams the cupboard door closed with a ‘thunk!’, dropping the plates with a clatter – not as to shatter them, but to make some noise. They’ve moved upstairs to Aziraphale’s flat, lightly used but homey regardless.

“It would grant me some relief to hear why you are so angry, if you don’t mind sharing,” Aziraphale says. Crowley quirks his eyebrow at him.

“She has… everything. She has everything! She has always had everything! Why share that, with us, now?! Why share that with us,” Crowley gestures between the two, “when we are who we are, and we are doing what we are doing?”

“I think that’s the entire point, dearest.” Aziraphale, not one for initiating intimate contact like this, slides an arm around Crowley’s waist, pulling them together. His other hand slips up, pulling the sunglasses gently off the bridge of Crowley’s nose and slinging his hand over Crowley’s shoulder. “We are who we are.

Crowley brings his hands to Aziraphale’s face. Outside, the sun shines through the clouds, and a sweet sun shower[4] graces the rooftops of London. In this moment, the two are oblivious to the world around them. It’s just Crowley, his frantic demonic energy simmering just below the surface, and Aziraphale, bright and calm and methodical and excited. Aziraphale loves Crowley’s eyes. He loves being able to see him – all of him. When he had started to cover his eyes all those centuries ago, Aziraphale had uttered a small prayer, asking only for Crowley to take them off more often around him. In the quiet kitchen, with the rain trickling softly down the windowpanes and hushed chatter coming from the parlor, Aziraphale and Crowley share a soft, lovely kiss.

Aziraphale breaks from the kiss and smacks Crowley on the chest.

“Raphael?!”

“Oh, come on, now—”

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Crowley is taken aback, and if he hadn’t seen the jest in Aziraphale’s eyes, well…

“When we settled a bit. When _things_ settled a bit.”

“Ah. Thank you.”

Crowley feels relieved. Aziraphale looks for answers. Once he finds them, he is satiated. No doubt, no further questioning. An utter virtue.

“You know that I love you, no matter your name, yes?”

“I know nothing of the sort.”

“Balderdash!” Aziraphale smiles, half-arseingly smacking Crowley’s bum with a kitchen rag as he leaves the kitchen. The demon turns, mouthing an ‘ooh!’ before disappearing around the corner with the plates and cutlery. He returns not a moment later to grab his glasses from the counter, then disappears again. “Crowley?”

“Yes, dear?” He pops his head back in, one last time.

“… leave them off?” Crowley smirks, then leaves his glasses on a hook near the spatulas.

Aziraphale turns back to the counter, having forgotten what he was doing in the first place. Did it really matter? Surely, in all of what had happened that night, what he was doing in the kitchen before Crowley had entered mattered the least. His _Mother_ was _here_. It still hadn’t settled, even from his conversation with Beelzebub earlier. A conversation with Beelzebub! A civil one, with a demon who isn’t Crowley!

He’s just pondering which kind of strong liquor would go best with a spot of Chinese takeaway when, from the parlor, Aziraphale hears the beginning of music.

_Ladies and gentlemen, this is Mambo Number Five._

In the parlor, God has found Aziraphale’s, albeit small, stereo. And She’s, well… dancing! Oh, and She’s rather good at it. Fabulous, in fact. She’s laughing, uninhabited, jiving along to the song without a care in the world.

“I’ve always wanted to do this!” She says, Beelzebub seems to be the only one bobbing along. Aziraphale, Gabriel, and Crowley stand awkwardly and watch. “What? Think your old mum doesn’t have mooooves?” She elongates the word, doing an arm wave. Crowley covers his face with one hand, shaking his head. Aziraphale, smiling, quickly and unobtrusively finishes setting the table, giving their Mother an opportunity to have Her moment. Beelzebub, at some point, joins Her in a duet, choking back laughter. Gabriel does the same, tickled at the sheer absurdity of it all. She twirls and steps in perfect sync, laughing all the while.

It's a moment that She'd been hoping for when She first stepped foot on Earth. It's one She hopes to happen again.

_Mambo Number Five!_

“Well, tuck in!” God prompts when Aziraphale has finished setting place. She pours Herself a glass of wine, swirls, sips, and sits. “Ahh! Aziraphale, you have lovely taste.” With God at the head of the table, four of the five begin to eat. Gabriel, in an example of his holy goodness, abstains as per usual. Instead, he stares at his Mother. He doesn’t say anything.

“Are you not hungry, Gabriel?” God asks. Aziraphale’s mouth thins, remembering Gabriel’s comments at the sushi bar, and the Principality's pervasive softness.

“Ah, I don’t partake in the sullying of my holy vessel.” He smiles wide at God, nodding at Her almost as if he is expecting praise. She gazes back at him, eyebrow quirked.

“Eat. The fucking. Chicken. Gabriel.”

It feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room. If there was ever a time to use the phrase ‘to put the fear of God into someone’, now would be the time. There is something so jarring about God swearing that a feeling not unlike an electric shock runs up Aziraphale’s spine and into his metaphysical wings. Gabriel turns pallid, so much so that he could almost be a walking corpse. He turns to the plate in front of him, then forks the chicken, and takes only the smallest amount of chicken that he can possibly take into his mouth. He makes a show of chewing and swallowing (even though there’s truly not enough in his mouth to do so), letting out an obviously fake ‘Mmmmmmmmm!’ of satisfaction. God, in that moment, decides Gabriel’s fate.

“Gabriel, effective immediately, you are to take leave of absence from your duties as Archangel. You are stained, Gabriel. Apathy has wormed its way into your soul. You will submit yourself to treatment as I see fit.”

“I— what, I— I don’t underst— understand. Mother, you can’t be serious, it’s just a human meal!”

God’s spoon melts into metallic goop and onto the table. She stands abruptly and takes Gabriel’s jaw in Her grasp, forcing his gaze up to Hers.

“I suggest you cease talking. I am fundamentally putting you in time-out, which is a far stone’s throw off to what I could do to you, Gabriel. I could put you any one of the thousands of clerical tasks. I could strip you of your rank as Archangel entirely. I could smite thee down, banish thee to Purgatory, shit, I could even do what you were so eager to do to Aziraphale and tear your fucking wings off, feather by mother **fucking** feather.” Aziraphale is shocked, a shiver running through his spine, and he feels sick to his core. He… Gabriel… had been planning that? “But even that’s a conversation for later. Do you want to know why I am not doing those things, Gabriel?

He shook his head sheepishly.

“Because I love you, and it is in your design to make mistakes. The perfection of God is to make amends for error. I am giving you a _chance_ , feckless twat, and you **_dare_** to question my reasoning for forgiveness?” She snarls Her words at him, God’s righteous anger causing the windows in Aziraphale’s flat to shudder. Across the pond, in Tucson, Arizona, a small dust devil forms. It forms, and grows, and turns into a full-blown tornado, destined to wreak havoc on its surroundings. “Your disdain for humanity is the true meaning of depravity, Gabriel. I have been watching you. I have watched your holier-than-thou attitude for centuries, and now you have subjected your own Mother to it – several times in the past hour! And that’s not to mention what chayot hakodesh have done to Heaven! Your conspiracy to kickstart the apocalypse didn’t go unnoticed. ‘The Great Plan’! ‘The Ineffable Plan’! Spoken about as if these are things that were your jobs to interfere with **_in the first place_**!” She turns to Beelzebub. “And don’t think you’re off the proverbial hook just because I’m punishing Gabriel first and foremost.”

She releases Gabriel from Her grasp and twists to face all of them. “But you understand what I want? What I truly want? Have you deciphered my ‘plans’ yet, do you understand at heart what my goal is?”

Crowley shakes his head, ‘no’, stabbing another piece of duck and chewing nonchalantly.

“I want them back. I want all of them back.”

* * *

[4] In some cultures on Earth, sun showers are the signification that two tricksters are getting married.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Gabriel really be like](https://data.whicdn.com/images/88178540/original.png)
> 
> Hope you liked this chapter! I know a lot happened, and that there may be some confusion, but all will be revealed in time ;)
> 
> Nobody, not even God Herself can resist the urge to dance to Mambo Number Five. I highly recommend listening to the song and just imagining God dancing along, nothing can do that scene justice like the imagination can.
> 
> Update 7/13/19  
> The next chapter is going to certainly be late. I'm travelling home tomorrow (this morning?) and while I'm going to be working on it as much as I possibly can, my computer battery stinks and I can only do so much without my already-written content as far as writing by hand goes. The chapter after the next, however, will be done on time! More on that to come!


	4. Archival Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who knew that Heaven had an instant messenger?

God doesn’t sleep that night. Crowley and Aziraphale retire to Aziraphale’s bedroom shortly after dinner. The other three sit in uncomfortable silence until Beelzebub sidles up to God for that same sickening comfort that Beelzebub has missed so much from Her touch. God takes to gently grooming Beelzebub’s wings, which She finds relatively spic and span. Gabriel simply sits and stares at the wall. When Beelzebub falls into a light doze, She slips out from under the demon. Gabriel looks up intently, almost like a dog awaiting the order to move. The two meet eyes for a moment.

“Go to sleep, Gabriel.”

Then, She takes a walk through London. The dark streets of SoHo turn into the dark streets of City Proper, and She slips into a small, unassuming internet café. She has a delightful little exchange with the cashier, an exhausted university student who has clearly had a rough day if the self-help website on her laptop says anything about it. If she goes home to her shared flat to find a letter from her university informing her of a bump in her scholarship to cover full expenses including housing, and if she finds an extra few hundred quid in the pocket of a jumper she hasn’t worn in months, well… God can’t say much about that, can She? She logs on to a messenger that seems to have been downloaded on the computer out of nowhere and types out a message.

> **:) Mum:** How’s it going up there?

Up in heaven, the message popped up on a certain angel’s screen.

Oh.

It’s me She’s messaging.

> **v:** Hello, Mother. Bit hectic up here. What can I do for you this fine London eve?
> 
> **:) Mum:** I wanted to check on you and your progress. Was my note clear enough?

Ah, the note.

> **v:** Crystal clear. To be quite honest I’m incredibly anxious to be doing this work without your supervision. I feel I’ve taken some creative liberties that may not be in line with your typical style.
> 
> **:) Mum:** That’s okay, that’s what editing is for! You’re doing amazing, sweetie.
> 
> **v:** Would you mind giving me just a moment to sort some things out?
> 
> **:) Mum:** Of course, take your time. But not too much time.

Alright then. My name is Vretil. I am God’s recordkeeper. She left me a note asking to document Her time on Earth, and I have been doing just that. I have been in this position since 421 BC, after a particularly kind miracle earned me a promotion. Oh, and I’m an Aries sun, Taurus moon, and Virgo rising.

> **v:** That should do. Thank you for your patience.
> 
> **:) Mum:** No need to thank me, you know this darling.
> 
> **:) Mum:** I wanted to let you know that I will be on Earth for longer than I had anticipated. Until further notice, you are to continue your work without hindrance. Do not talk to anyone. Do not let anyone into the chambers. Under no circumstance should you leave.
> 
> **v:** This is frightening me a bit.
> 
> **:) Mum:** Have no fear. I will be enacting my Plan from Earth. In fact, I’ve already started.

If there be any misspellings ahead, it is because I am shaking. Pardon the imperfections.

> **v:** I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mother, but I am very, very scared.
> 
> **:) Mum:** It’s okay, Vretil. I will be okay. I promise.
> 
> **v:** I... have told some friends that you went down to Earth. Before I got your note. I'm so sorry, Mother.
> 
> **:) Mum:** I know, it's okay. It was bound to happen anyways.
> 
> **:) Mum:** I must go, the bookshop’s inhabitants will be stirring and I’ll need to be back before they wake. We’ll be taking a trip this morn. Will you check on Metatron when you have a moment?
> 
> **v:** He is still in his same condition, I’m afraid.
> 
> **:) Mum:** Thank you.
> 
> **:) Mum:** Vretil, please trust me.
> 
> **v:** Of course, Mother.
> 
> **:) Mum:** I love you.
> 
> **v:** Be well.

God signs off and leaves the café, giving the cashier a wink and a hint that maybe she might have just encountered someone important. I, however, am left in my place: sitting at God’s desk, looking into every moment across the universe on Her several monitors, and surrounded by filing cabinets, new and old alike. Some spill paper and papyrus, others have been locked tight, the contents of which never to see God’s light for the rest of eternity. I turn to look back at Metatron. He floats, back arched, in a ray of silver light.

“Oh, my dear friend, how I wish you would wake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bonus chapter before I post the late chapter in the next few days!


	5. Humpty Dumpty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The underbelly rumbles, and the unrest in Heaven and Hell is insatiable. God grapples with several messes.

“Lucifer’s fall was the result of a jump.”

-

The rumble that came from the sky was echoed down below, a tidal wave of anger and betrayal convalescing to infinite decibels. The wind whipped at God’s cheeks, the sea mist stung like needles as it crashed against the sand, every bolt of lightning was a threat of a strike. It was certain that the weather was meant to hurt Her. In a way, it had worked. God had crossed Her arms in an attempt to cut the biting chill running through Her ethereal being.

“I’ll wait![5]”

The mist did stab and the wind did raze, and finally Lucifer rose from the waters with a seething snarl. Head to toe he was soaked in tar and oil, sluicing off his body somehow exactly like water would.

“Oh, my child, what’s happened?”

"Don't you speak to me."

“My love, I understand that you are angry—"

“You understand N̴̢̧̛͕̭̬̻̥̞̼͚̞̟͓̙̮̹̝̻͎̪͙̖̰͍̥̼̪̱͎͍̞̹̠̺̣̣͔͓̺̺̬̯̓̽̓͑̈́̈́̈́̓̔̔̆̀̆̄͊̂̍͆͋̍̋̽͂͗̐̈̈́̏̔͛̒̽̐̾̐͘̚̚͘̚͘͜͠͝͝O̶̧̝̩͚̝̬̲̙̗̦͙̰̭̗̠̦̱͇̭̲̲̺͈̦̯̩͎̻̫̫̬͎̟̖̣͚̮̝̗̞̎̈́̀͛̎̇̌̄̓̈̓͆̈̔̔̈́̔̏͂͐͐͒͒̔̓͋̓̋͆͆̆̚͘̚͜͝͝͝T̵̡̡̢̨̨̛̹̪͕̰͇̙̝͇̞̠̠̮͈̫͙̬̮̬̘͓̖̤̲̯̠̳̠̳͍͔̺̫͈͊́̄̍͊̾̇̀̔̃̋̊̿̿̕͜͜͜͝Ḩ̵̧̡̡̼̼̬͔͎̱͍̗͖̳͍͇̼̗͉͖̫̗̪̠̜͊̋̃̈́͘͜͝ͅǏ̶̡̨̨̡̦͕̣͖͓̞̳̭̩͕̟̯̜̹͇̰̗͈͙̖̯͖̹̬̤̰̟͕͇̥̱̬̜͍̞͍̟̹̥͒̀̓͗͊͑͊̓̕͝ͅŅ̶̢̢̧̧̨̳̗͍̦̖̩͉̹̹̤̥̞̞̹͇̾͌G̸͙̽̂̉̊̄̆͛̚̚!”

God’s breath caught in Her throat, and She tried to form a coherent thought around the words that She couldn't quite seem to make.

“You ask far too much of me, my love. My plan is—”

“Ineffable?!”

The storm broke, and suddenly they were at the eye of the storm. God unfolded Her arms, reaching out to Her son.

“Lucifer, my morning star, please –”

“DO NOT CĄ̶̬̤̱͗̋̃͒Ľ̶̰̫͓̦̿L̸̗̭̥͒̀̏̓ ̵̗̩̭͚͐̅M̴͎̂͝Ḙ̵̬̂̋ ̴̡̛͙͖̮̤̑̀͝T̴͕͖̩̭̉̾̅͗̈H̷̨̃̂̔Ȧ̵̖̣͕̀̂̀͝Ţ̴͇̖̗̪̆͐̚ ψ! I AM NO STAR, I AM THE DḀ̵͒͒R̵̺͆̾̿̈́̚K̶̨̛̩͍͓͌̚ NIGHT’S VOID! I AM SLIME, SLUDGE, OIL, PAIN, AND TORTURE! I AM… I am everything that you wished that I was not.” His beautiful, wispy strawberry blonde locks were no more, replaced with greasy dishwater blonde strands that fell over his face in a curtain. “Do you fear me, Father? HATE me? CURSE ME? _**YOU CREATED ME**_!” He stepped backwards once, towards the murky dark.

“Lucifer, don’t,” She said with a warning tone. “You misunderstand—”

“Then EXPLȦ̷̗Ḭ̴̳̈́̆N̸̘͕̦͓͈̑̈́̒̊͗̈́ ̶̉ͅI̷̟̥͐͒T̵̺̦͚̂̏̆͝ ̶̨̘̭͓̖͈͋̋̊͝T̶̨̛̤̐̕O̶̬̍ ̸͔͕̗͐̉̍Ḿ̸͓͚͈̝̲̙ ~~Ẻ̶̡̳̯~~!”

“ ** _BE STILL, LUCIFER_**!”

She could see the change in his eyes. His once warm brown gaze gone, a seeping madness that he saw through like rose-colored glass. He reached his arms out to a T, palms facing upwards - an image that would be forever burned into Her memory.

For a moment, they were paralleled.

Arms outstretched and wild-eyed, Lucifer stared God in the face, leaned backwards, and fell.

“ ** _NO!_** ”

It was one of the few times in God’s eternal existence that She had felt shock.

It was the only time in God’s eternal existence that She had wept.

Lucifer fell, and fell, and fell, but he was never out of Her sight, even when he thought She could no longer see him. He streaked downwards, rushing towards the Earth, but also nothingness. She could not bear the sight. She created a Place, just for him. Perhaps that was where he would find what he was looking for.

He called it Hell, and one by one, Her children followed him down.

-

She recounts this tale to Her children in the Bentley, with Crowley speeding a million miles a minute down the motorway. The angels hang onto Her every word with rapt attention while Beelzebub pretends to pay attention to the darting London scenery and Crowley pretends to pay attention to the road. The story of Lucifer’s fall is a legendary one, and to hear it straight from the Almighty’s mouth as a recounting of fact has a certain je ne sais quois. Beelzebub and Crowley, they know this story, to an extent. Crowley (or Raphael, rather) and Beelzebub (or Belial, at the time) had been there to care for him, but neither had been there to see the truth of the matter as Lucifer began his descent. Lucifer – Satan, that is – has lied about much of his descent, which is unsurprising to both.

“I was so grateful when you followed him.” She doesn’t look at Crowley or Beelzebub when She whispers Her confessional, but they both know that She is talking to them. “I admired your self-sacrifice. You two plunged headfirst into the aftermath while I locked myself away and fought, sometimes quite literally, with the ghost of my eldest, and myself. Metatron was one of two that I let in for six thousand millennia, which, I now know was a mistake for other reasons than being an absent parent…” She trails off, gazing at the scenery. “It took me a few centuries to figure out that he had taken a part of me with him that night. Figuratively speaking.”

The lemon that Gabriel had to have swallowed at some point must have been very sour, indeed. Gabriel has been raised to believe that his Mother can do no wrong, that She is immaculate. The thing is, he just heard Her testify to the stark opposite.

What’s an Archangel to believe if not in God’s undeniable flawlessness?

“So what of the apocalypse, then?” Beelzebub asks. “Why all of this? To punish Lucifer?”

Beelzebub is Lucifer’s favorite little sibling. Beelzebub had fallen first for him, following him over the edge once it was revealed where he had gone. Hearing Mother speak of it as if it was a distant memory… Beelzebub could still feel the burning cold and freezing hot sometimes. Once in a while, the demon would experience the numbness of seeing Lucifer encased in a statue of rock the moment after Beelzebub’s own impact. The sheer panic that he might be gone. A moment of determination when Beelzebub began to peel apart the shell. Relief, Raphael – Crowley. Healing. Building. More angels, falling, falling, falling, falling, falling–

Aziraphale places a gentle hand on Beelzebub’s upper arm, and Beelzebub realizes with a start that the unintentional grip on Aziraphale’s thigh is perhaps too tight.

“What came of the text of my second book was never supposed to… The apocalypse… Beelzebub, look at me.” God is turned around in Her seat, reaching one hand out to Beelzebub. Beelzebub takes Her hand and is again awash in Her loving light. “This isn’t the time nor place for this conversation, but I expect you’ll get your answers in the coming days.”

God lets go of Beelzebub’s hand, but all Beelzebub wants is to reach back out and curl into God’s maternal being. If Beelzebub were honest[6], that feeling alone is why Beelzebub is still here. She had asked Beelzebub to stay, back in the bookshop, and the demon had done just that, even through the night. The Lord of Hell had _slept_. Beelzebub had decided that it was all insanity when the five had gotten into the car that morning. No doubt, the report back to Lucifer would be painful.

A soft, angelic tune begins to play from Gabriel’s coat pocket, breaking the mood. He grimaces, then answers the call reluctantly. “Archange–” God cleared Her throat, reminding Gabriel of his current status in Heaven. “Um, probationary angel Gabriel speaking.”

 _“What the fuck are you talking about? And where the fuck are you?! It’s confirmed, Mother has left the nest and Heaven is in turmoil.”_ Michael’s voice came clearly through Gabriel’s Heaven standard issue transparent energy phone-adjacent… thing.

Ah, Michael, ever the abrasive.

“Listen, Michael—”

“ _No, you listen! Sandalphon has disappeared further than The Eye can see. Metatron isn't answering anyone's calls. Uriel and I are dealing with the beginnings of a serious rebellion. Not to mention that I'm pretty sure I'm being followed. If you don't get up here RIGHT NOW I'm going to burn your name from the books!”_

“Michael, I can't. I’m with Mother.”

 _“You… what? Hold on.”_ There's the telltale sound of Michael struggling to fit into one of Heaven's many closets[7], cursing and banging elbows _“So it's true then? She's on Earth? We all know she's gone, but most of us thought that Vretil was having on us when ze said that She’s on Earth **[8]**.”_

Gabriel takes a shaky breath and looks at God. For all intents and purposes, he's speaking to someone he shouldn't be, since he's been put in ‘time-out’. God, without looking, gestures for Gabriel to give Her the phone. He hands it over without hesitation. It's not like he actually wants to be talking to Michael right now, anyways.

“Michael, darling, is that you? I just have to say, Earth is lovely this time of year, you _must_ visit when you have a chance.”

 _“I… Mother…”_ On the other side of the phone, Michael sounds breathless. It has, after all, been millennia since she's last heard God's voice.

“Stall them.”

_“What?”_

“I heard you yelling through the speaker. Stall the other angels. I’m on Earth for a reason and you and the others will just have to buckle down until further notice. Small fibs, Michael, less if possible. Nothing drastic. Understood?”

_“Yes, Mother.”_

“Are you well, Michael?”

_“… Yes, Mother.”_

“We’ll talk later. I love you.”

 _“I- wait! I can’t find Sandalphon, Mother. Is he also with you?”_ God pauses, eyes fixing on the car radio in focus for just a moment.

“Don’t worry about him too much for now. Goodbye, Michael.”

-

 _“Gabriel, how do I turn this off? Is it this button? No, darling, I can do it myself, I just – oh, sh—!"_ Michael hears the telltale sound of the dial tone and stares at the phone in her hand with disbelief. Then, she steps out of the closet. Around her, angels are yelling and screaming at each other, blaming each other and pulling hair and starting rows over nothing.

“QUIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!” she booms in her Archangelic power. Every angel, including the ones that are out of her sight in Heaven, turns towards her, the tremor of her word pulsating through true non-true and corporeal. “Listen up. Mother is away. I have been given instruction in the matter of the apocalypse. In the meantime, you are all to… _take a chill pill_. Understood?”

Each angel gives an uncomfortable acknowledgment. Hair is unclasped and hasty apologies made. Michael steps forward slowly, then gains momentum until she is sprinting, screeching into a small conference room that she and the other chayot hakodesh utilize for their meetings. She steps past Gabriel’s seat, Metatron’s, Raphael’s – unused, but kept spic and span just in the case of his return – and taps Uriel on the back. Uriel looks up in panic, the archangel letting a half-folded origami frog flit from their grasp. The two share a meaningful look, and Michael flings herself into Uriel’s grasp, the two clinging on to each other like wreckage in a storm.

-

They reach Tadfield in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, and Crowley slows to a creeping 40 kilometers per hour lest that strange man with the wiener dog appear and attempt to speak to them for violating the speed limits that he’s seemed to impose on the town himself[9]. God knows that that’s the last thing they need right now. Crowley turns towards Anathema’s place.

“Woah, woah, where are you going?”

“I— Anathema’s cottage?”

“I need to see Adam, not Anathema.”

“Well, Adam’s parents—”

“—are going to need to know everything, my dear child. He’s their son and they need to know what’s going on to properly care for him.”

Oh great, She’s reading their minds now, Crowley thinks to himself.

“That’ll go over perfectly! Go up to two humans, jolly, ‘your kid’s the antichrist and I know this because I’m God’!”

“That’s pretty much how I’m planning it.” Crowley is astonished. Humans, knowing of God’s existence as fact, knowing that She walks the Earth! Unconscionable! “Best to be to the point in this instance, I think.”

“I…” Aziraphale pipes up from the middle seat, a nice healthy middle to a Beelzebub and Gabriel sandwich. “Mother, humans are—”

“—more resilient than even you give credit for, I _wish_ that everyone would stop interrupting me!” She gives a pointed glare at Her children. “They’ll be fine, I’ll see to it.”

The rest of the drive, all of two minutes, is spent in silence, save for Aziraphale shifting his weight to get more comfortable. God steps out of the car with a bounce, and halts just when She’s about to open the gate. “Ah,” She says, “I’m nervous.” Gabriel steps from behind up to Her side and… pats Her shoulder awkwardly.

“Right.”

“Yeah.”

And they move on.

Adam is playing in the back garden with the Them, having not yet began their daily journey to their court in the nearby wood. The game about 

“Hello, Adam,” She says.

“Hello. Who are you?”

“Well, technically speaking, I’m your grandmother, but that’s only if you want me to be.” Adam looks Her up and down, the judgment of a 11-year-old boy somehow more scathing than that of the antichrist himself. She doesn’t look much like him at all, and he’s fairly certain that he’s met all four of his grandparents. “My name is a bit more complicated. To put it simply, I am God.”

The Them examine Her like a jeweler might examine a priceless gem. That is to say, if the jeweler were to openly express disdain and disbelief that the gem actually was a gem through body language and facial expression. If God could ever feel the anxiety of being judged by four eleven-year-olds, she would feel it now. Oh, wait. She does feel it. She feels the anxiety. She feels the apprehension of another’s judgement, and boy is that new. That nervousness earlier, that little worry that maybe something would go wrong or She was going to mess it up, it was all coming true, right in front of Her.

“Alright,” Adam says, shrugging, “but what are _those two_ doing here?”

And all of that emotional effort was spent on absolutely nothing to worry about.

Behind Her, Crowley, Aziraphale, Gabriel, and Beelzebub are lurking. Beelzebub is halfway hiding behind Gabriel. Crowley passively acknowledges Adam with a casual wave of his hand, looking away into who knows where and Aziraphale smiles sheepishly. God looks back at the motley crew.

“They’re just tagging along, won’t be any trouble. Right, children?” Gabriel and Beelzebub nod enthusiastically.

“Alright,” Adam says.

“Adam, things are very complicated in my world. That’s half the reason why I made it. You’re only eleven, but I know you understand this.” She waits for him to respond, and when he nods, She continues; “Lucifer is my child. He is misguided and foolish and hard-headed. I still love him. You don’t have to think of him as your dad, you don’t even have to consider it. He’s not been in your life and if you want to keep it that way, you can keep it that way.” She takes a moment to let Her words settle with him. “The balances of Heaven and Hell are upset and it’s entirely my fault. In the coming days, I’m going to be fixing that, and it’s going to cause some upset that will inevitably involve you. I’m bringing my angels home, Adam, the ones that I can. That includes Lucifer. In almost the same ways that he’s failed you, I have failed him, and I owe it to him to at least try.”

Adam thinks on this for a moment, then five, then twenty. “I think maybe my dad might want to hear some of this.”

She nods. “We have a lot to catch your parents up on.”

-

They talk late into the hours of early morn, until Adam is yawning nearly every other sentence and Dog becomes a pillow. At one point, Crowley must admit what he’d done to switch the children around, and that Adam wasn’t biologically either Deirdre’s or Arthur’s. For the most part, the two have taken everything in stride, but at this, Deirdre, speechless, bids everyone a goodnight, and retires to bed quickly. Arthur looks at Adam. The boy is dead asleep, leaning on Crowley like the demon is a large stuffed pillow. His dreams are now free of the whispers of the damned, and most feature a large meadow, a stick, and Dog. Arthur, bless his soul, picks up his son under his legs and gives a brief but detailed explanation of house rules for guests, along with where they might find a bed or couch to sleep on.

God cups a mug of lukewarm cocoa, staring off into the middle distance with a faint smile on Her face. Crowley notices first and nudges Her with his shoulder. She breaks out of Her stupor and smiles at Her son, realizing that at some point in the evening he’s taken his patented glasses off. From the kitchen, She can hear Aziraphale and Gabriel making quiet conversation as they wash the dishes. It all feels so peaceful.

“You alright?” Crowley coughs, uncomfortable with… feelings.

“It’s just that… I’ve never been a grandparent before. Always a parent, never a grandparent. It’s different.”

Beelzebub stands from the spot on the couch next to Crowley, placing a hand on God’s shoulder. God squeezes it before the demon can let go. “I’ll be back.” The demon leaves the house through the screen door at the back and is sinking into the ground in seconds.

“Crowley, I really do need to know what you did with that staff.”

“Ah… funny thing, that is…”

**-**

Beelzebub steps into Hell confidently. No need to falter now. What is done is done, and Beelzebub will face the consequences whether they be deserved or otherwise. Satan’s court is almost exactly the same as when the first three had fallen save for a long, crooked banquet table situated in front of his throne, the subject of many a gory feast. The sidelines are filled with bloodthirsty demons hungry for war, wanting an explanation as to why they’re not wreaking havoc on the surface or burning Heaven’s paperwork in this very moment. Lucifer – no, Satan, Beelzebub has to remind internally – himself sits upon his throne, gnawing on gristle. Where Beelzebub would normally expect to see him writhing angry, he is calm. He could have just stepped out of a spa, from the looks of it. Beelzebub steps up to plate and waits for what seems like an eternity, until he speaks.

“How is She?” Satan asks.

“She wants to speak with you.”

The other demons break out in a hushed gossip. Certainly, they couldn’t be talking about… but, perhaps they are! Among the foes, two Dukes, Hastur and Ligur, begin to plot.

“S̶͙̚Ĩ̸͙͓̙̩̂̆L̴͙̟̦̆Ê̴̡̌Ṋ̶͒C̷̡͉̓̾̽E̵͔̪̋!” The rumble of ‘something else’ in his voice is what has always kept the others in check, but Beelzebub knows better.

“I think you should talk to Her.”

“TALK!” He screams, spittle shooting like a sprinkler onto Beelzebub. “WHAT COULD SHE WANT FROM TALK?!” Beelzebub looks around at the ten million demons crammed into the room.

“Privately, sir.”

He growls at the room, and a hasty evacuation ensues. Satan looks at Beelzebub expectantly. Beelzebub looks at Satan, drawing every ounce of demonic strength to the surface possible.

“She wants reconciliation, and I think you should do it.” Satan doesn’t react. “I’ve spent the past day with Her, Luci. I’ve missed Her so much, and I can’t… I can’t go back. So, even if you don’t open yourself up to a chat with Mother dearest, I’m…,” Beelzebub chokes on the next words, “I’m resigning as Lieutenant.” Beelzebub clenches both fists, haunched over into a sort of a bow.

“You cannot be serious, Beelzebub.” The Devil Himself seems surprised by this declaration.

“I’ll keep the Lordship, for you, Luci, but I’m not fighting in any war, if there is one. I’m not going to lead an army against our Mother.”

Satan steps off his throne with a snarl, grabbing Beelzebub by the collar, lifting higher, higher in the air, and he snaps Beelzebub’s neck in twain. Satan drops the demon like a sack of potatoes, running a hand through his hair as he steps back to his throne.

“Impulzzzive.” Beelzebub says from the floor.

Satan sits with a thump. He sits, and he thinks, and if this were a children’s story he would blow the house down. He stares at the chicken-necked Beelzebub on the floor. From a small hook on his throne, he palms a wooden staff into his hand and heals his little sibling.

On the hilt lies a black, sparkling stone echoing the depths of the universe, stars and planets alike screaming for the staff’s true wielder:

Raphael.

* * *

[5] Eons later, this utterance becomes the mantra of the schoolteacher. Lucifer himself takes credit for this.

[6] Which Beelzbub is not.

[7] The namesake of the infamous ‘Seven Minutes in Heaven' game that a cherub had invented – but that's a story for another time.

[8] Okay, sure, Michael. :/

[9] Crowley and Aziraphale have been round twice in the past week to see Adam, to explain some and to help him acclimate to his powers. Both times, R.P. Tyler had found it in his displeasure to initiate conversation with the angel and demon, much to their chagrin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I definitely posted this fifteen minutes ago accidentally but let's pretend that didn't happen ahahahahaha ;;
> 
> Though it's not necessary to watch, [this dance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6UbpxCQTv34) by Camille A. Brown has been on my mind as I wrote this chapter. Even if it doesn't bring anything to the fic for you, I highly recommend giving it a watch.


	6. The Sound of Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is a family of angels to do when they find it in them to actually talk to each other?

In the twilight hours of the morning, when the sun has not yet broken over the horizon and light is a hazy sort of gray-blue, God stands on the back lawn of the Young home, looking out upon Her glorious kingdom.

A piece of trash floats by in the morning wind.

Despite the unwanted accoutrements, God feels at peace in Her garden. The birds flitter in conversation, the wind crests over the hills in a dance with itself, a small brook babbles through the crevices of small rocks. She takes a deep breath and just is.

Aziraphale watches Her (secretly!) from the window in the kitchen. She knows he is watching, obviously, but She allows him to remain in the harmless fantasy. She looks a bit different today; hair just a bit longer and looser, Her skin a cooler blue tone in comparison to the warmer one that Her still-dark black skin had been just last night, and She seems to stand taller by at least a few inches.

He stirs his cocoa thoughtfully, skimming over the memories of the past few days with only one question in mind.

“Do you reckon She’s an alien?” Deirdre sneaks up behind Aziraphale, sipping on a cup of coffee herself. “You know, turns out this whole time that we’re just the byproduct of some nutter from outer space, doing who knows what for who knows why.”

“Erm… well, all angels are creations of God, so I can assure you that is really not the case.”

Aziraphale slips away from the uncomfortable atmosphere, heading outside and walking towards his Mother. Adam had said that his mum was a bit strange, but this, even in his standards, was slightly abnormal. He chalks it up to the shock of learning that her child had been switched at birth just the night before. The human mind is a funny thing.

The angel walks to Her in the hush of the twilight hour. Every step, every blade of grass bending and breaking under his shoe feels as if it’s a bomb as it breaks the silence.

“Do you feel the Earth, Aziraphale?”

He stops in his tracks.

“My guess would be that I do not as you do.”

“The closest I’ve ever gotten to being physically here, on Earth, all these years has been projecting my consciousness. You know, astral projection. Kinda like… you know, humans have invented this thing called virtual reality, they've put it on headsets, and you can look at something, almost like you're there, but not really. Have you ever tried it?"

“Oh, hardly! Crowley has a phone hooked up to his car, but I’m still puttering around with my rotary. Technological advances have been less my forte, though I'm sure I'll get around to it soon."

“I've never been on Earth before, only experienced it through a sort of lens, like the human's virtual reality. You saw me, once, at the garden, in that form. Being here is… completely different. Everything seems so much more vibrant and alive. Speaking with humans! Being able to _touch_ my own creation is _exhilarating_!”

She looks at him suddenly, smiling a wide grin, hair bouncing and floating down peacefully as if physics doesn’t apply, and then She’s off! She runs up to the top of the hill, and Aziraphale rushes after Her. When She reaches the top, She slows to a walk, and says, “I’ve always wanted to do this!”

Out of nowhere, an orchestral sweep begins to play. The neighbors, later on, will assume that some sort of movie is being shot, maybe some sort of tribute thing.

She beams at him, all innocence and pure joy. Aziraphale clutches at his chest, bliss and delight and exhilaration bubbling up into his own returning smile.

God spins into song.

 _“The hills are alive with the sound of music!_  
With songs they have sung for a thousand years,  
The hills fill my heart with the sound of music,  
My heart wants to sing every song it hears.”

The moment She begins to sing, Aziraphale feels an overwhelming wave of the feeling of being at home, in Heaven. Flashes of love.

 _“My heart wants to beat like the wings of the birds,_  
_That rise from the lake to the trees._  
_My heart wants to sigh like a chime that flies,_  
_From a church on a breeze._  
_To laugh like a brook when it trips and falls over stones on its way,_  
_To sing through the night like a lark who is learning to pray!_ ”

He also feels like he’s been let privy to something secret. Something that’s been squirrelled away for millennia, shoved away into some dusty, dark corner where it’s never been looked at or touched, something decidedly not allowed. He feels… longing, not unlike the longing Aziraphale has felt since he first met Crowley. There’s also hope, ringing like the little bell he keeps above his shop door, and the fascination of a new body, a new perspective, new experiences…! Above all else, he feels the consistent tide of love.

 _“I go to the hills when my heart is lonely…_  
_I know I will hear what I've heard before,_  
_My heart will be blessed,_  
_With the sound of music…_ ”

The sun cuts over the horizon, a burst of yellows and reds, and God sees Lucifer's wings. She had crafted them so carefully, Her first angel, bright and hot. Her morning star. She had modeled the sunrise and sunset after his wings, when She made the Earth. She watches it often, from Heaven. This, however, is so vivid and real, and a new pain shoots through Her.

Grief cuts through Aziraphale nearly as severely as the sun has the skyline. He nearly doubles over at the crashing wave of anguish. He feels trapped. He can’t get out. He can’t get out! But… he doesn’t want to be out. Something is missing, he's sure of it. If only he could find it, or bring it back—

_“And I'll sing once more.”_

Through tears, he sees his Mother in a different light.

-

Crowley watches the two in the yard with a bespectacled, suspicious gaze. It’s not that he thinks that God will do anything to hurt him, but he's still unsure of the reason for God tearing his heart out and showing it to him. God clearly has other motivations for being on Earth, but She's been slow to reveal Her playing cards and Crowley is becoming antsy. He wiggles his toes on the cold kitchen tile, wishing that he had pulled on his socks before climbing out of bed. A pair of socks hits him in the head.

Gabriel.

“That wasn't necessary, you great pigeon.”

“Whatever. You left them in the guest room.”

“Someone's tetchy today.”

“You try preparing an Apocalypse for several millennia only to find out that it was all a stupid game. I don't get this. What the Hell does She want from this?”

“ _Now_ you’re getting the hang of questioning Her plan! Well, one thing's for certain. She wants all of Her children back. What I can't quite understand is if She wants me back as Crowley, or if She wants me back as Raphael.” He sips at his coffee again, looking back out to God, who is racing up the hill through the hedge, and Aziraphale follows.

Gabriel takes a sharp breath in.

Gabriel and Raphael were never as close as Lucifer and Raphael had been. Gabriel was second youngest of the seven, and he had spent much of his time with Sariel, once upon a time. Gabriel remembers holding Raphael back. He remembers begging ‘please, brother, stop, he's gone, he's gone' and thinking ‘stay, don't go, mourn with me, don't make me mourn you too’.

“I'll be back,” he had said.

Except that he never did come back.

When all was said and done, it was Metatron, Uriel, Michael, and him. After the war, Sandalphon wormed his way into Archangelic glory by the order of God, but it wasn't the same. Sandalphon took Sariel's place[10]. Despite his numerous attempts at getting close to the others (mostly by quoting The Sound of Music at inopportune moments, though that was a recent development), the others never felt the connection with him as they did with each other.

In Heaven, there's a small graveyard with various kinds of grave markings, each with small offerings and the names of the angels who died for Heaven. No, not the demons, only those who had truly perished in the fight against the rebellion. Here lay Sariel, young and bright-eyed, always ready for a new adventure with one of God's new creatures. If at any given time you can't find any one Archangel, the first place to look is this graveyard. Gabriel visits the most often. When he is not actively doing anything else, you can find him here. He tells of his duties, of the humans, of the events on Earth and in Heaven, and recently of the Apocalypse. His visits, as of late, have decreased dramatically, and he feels slightly guilty of not keeping Sariel… or rather, Sariel's grave, up to date.

Gabriel thought Raphael properly dead, having witnessed the way that he had stepped carefully down, his movement screaming the proclamation he had made to his siblings, Archangelic and otherwise, before he had begun his descent. He had rationalized the absence of Raphael's grave as a product of his death on the way down.

But he had never thought, even for a second, that he had made it, and that he couldn't make it back to Heaven as a demon.

He comes to realize that his cheeks are wet, and that his hand is hovering over Crowley's on the kitchen counter. Crowley is still watching their Mother and Aziraphale in the garden, having not yet noticed Gabriel's distress. He feels so stupid. He's the spitting image of his long-lost sibling - he IS his long-lost sibling. it's no wonder he had felt like Crowley was familiar. In a burst of courage, Gabriel closes the distance between his hand and Crowley – Raphael – and is met with the same familiar energy the same pulse of wise knowledge he felt every time his older sibling had groomed his wings and chastised him for not keeping better care, the beat of his multifaceted heart. He chokes out an ugly sob and claps a hand over his mouth, trying to stop it. It's too late. Gabriel's agony escapes him as a myriad of pent-up previously unknown emotion wells to bursting, and he falls to the ground, clutching Crowley as he goes.

“What?!” Crowley spills a splash of coffee, jostled by the abrupt breakdown.

“I…,” Gabriel's words catch in his throat. "You never came back."

“What… oh, OOOOH, _you weren't there for that conversation._ Shit. Just…,” Crowley hesitates, unsure what to do with the sudden puddle of Archangel on the Young's kitchen floor, the one clutching at his feet like it's the end of the—never mind that. Crowley spins in place looking for um, anything? He grabs a dish towel and places it in Gabriel’s head, as if it will do something, anything. Predictably, Gabriel stays a crying mess on the floor, muttering something through tightly clutched fingers. “What? What're you saying?”

“Please… please…” Gabriel cries weakly, “Raphael…” Gabriel clutches at the pant of Crowley's trousers, eyes cast downwards, his other hand covering his eyes, almost as if he is praying. A pang of something familiar hits him, and he kneels, meeting Gabriel on the cold tile floor. The two meet eyes, and Gabriel wraps his arms around Crowley in a careful hug. Crowley sits on the floor from his kneel carefully, cradling the distressed angel in his lap. “You don't know… you don't even know…”

“Know what?”

“Sariel,” he sobbed hard again, “didn't make it.”

Crowley knows what Gabriel means. He opens his mouth to form an “oh" that never comes and clutches his brother, his youngest living brother, to him tightly.

-

“Mother, I have to say that it’s unusual for even this to warrant a visit from you yourself.”

“Speak steadfast, my child.” Aziraphale knows when to drop his act of fishing for information.

“There are plenty of angels you could have sent in your stead to stop Gabriel from… doing what he was going to do. I don’t see the need for your presence here when you must be needed for greater goods up in Heaven!”

“No.” She says this shortly, without any room for argument. At first, Aziraphale takes it as a warning. “Do not presume to know my reasoning for my action before it’s explained. You are the greater good, Aziraphale. I couldn’t stop Gabriel from upstairs. There’s…,” She stops.

For a moment, She considers the outcome of telling Her angel the happenings of Her inner sanctum. God cannot see the future, this is certain. Free will makes things too muddled. What She _can_ do is consider the most likely results, just like any human. God has hidden for a long time. She has hidden truths, She has waited when She should have not, She has tried to delay She musters Her courage and speaks the truth to Aziraphale.

“Aziraphale, Metatron is very ill.” She speaks faintly, softly, as if She’s admitting to Herself something that She knew a long time ago but couldn’t find it in Her to say. “He has been for quite some time. I’ve tried to stave it off as long as I could, but he has finally succumbed. I should not have allowed for him to continue in has duties, truly. As far as three thousand years back his relaying of my word has been… far from exact. My books are riddled with additions and edits that I did not make, Aziraphale. Metatron brought them to Earth, it was his responsibility to distribute my word accordingly. In between the book leaving my hands and entering the hands of humankind, things _changed_. My concise wording vanished. It’s caused all sorts of issues over the course of the past six thousand years. It’s gotten worse over time, you’ve seen the New Testament, it’s a hot mess. He passed it off as one thing or another every time, and I believed him.” She pauses. “I couldn’t stop him. By the time I knew, it was already too late. He hid his affliction from me for a long time, and he was able to because of the nature of the illness. I didn’t know what I was looking at, and it had an advantage against me. It’s Purgatory, Aziraphale. Grey matter. Apathy.” She hisses the last word and stops, rocking back into Her body involuntarily from the litany of truths.

“Mother?” She looks to him, reeling in Her emotions.

“I’m looking for someone to step into Metatron’s duties, Aziraphale.”

“I… I don’t understand! You’re _God._ You can do anything, why can’t you just... just heal him!”

“Aziraphale, please,” Her voice strains against Her emotion, “ _don’t._ ”

Aziraphale takes a staggering step backwards, moved physically by Her word.

“I need _somebody_ to be my voice.”

She looks at him, turning Her body so that he might understand what She means. Aziraphale is a no-brainer, and at the top of the list[11] for those who might be a reliable replacement. He’s a sturdy, elegant Ishim with a heart of gold. He might be a little bit too much into Christian bibles, but at this rate, so are nearly all of the others – at least the ones who don’t know any better.

“ _Me?!_ ”

“You, Aziraphale.”

He gulps, taking deep breaths as if he’s just run a marathon.

“Why me? Surely there are others—Gabriel would leap at the chance.”

“Gabriel is similarly afflicted, I fear the same for Michael and Uriel as well.”

“I… what?”

“I couldn’t stop Gabriel, Aziraphale. He would have taken your wings, child. I could have given them back, but such is a trauma I wish on none of my children. Ever. He's not too far gone, I can still help him, but he needs to step back from his duties to do so.”

“There… others…”

“When Crowley asked you to leave Earth, you said no, twice. You love Crowley so, and the reason you chose not to… why, Aziraphale? Tell me.”

“I, well... Well, life would be dreadfully boring, I would think. I couldn't stand to see him so bored, or so sad. He loves humanity as much as I, he would... he wouldn't be the same without them. He's the one who convinced me to do it all, really.”

“Everything you have done has exemplified your worthiness to be my Voice. Though it was prophesized, and though I pulled strings, you made those choices yourself. The Voice of God should be love, and that is what you are, Aziraphale.”

“…Do I _have_ to?”

“I’m asking you to think about it. You’re my first choice, Aziraphale, but you’re not my only choice. I have a sneaking suspicion that in the coming days there will be more options presenting themselves to me.” Aziraphale watches as She relaxes Her hands from their grip on the sides of Her dress. “Let’s go for a stroll and we can take a moment to decompress and continue the conversation. Besides, I have something to show you and Crowley.”

-

“Ah! Anathema! And friend.”

Since the notpocalypse, Anathema and Newton have sat down and had several very long talks about who they were to each other. They’ve also fucked each other senseless plenty of times. It’s not exactly traditional, but they’re very happy being friends – friends who shag. The sunny days, which have continued uninterrupted thanks to Adam’s innate powers, have been spent outside picnicking, sometimes joined by Adam and the Them. Often you can see Newt absorbed in some of Anathema’s more factually checked history books, absorbing anything from gothic architecture to historical fiction to biographies of slaves brought to the United States via the Atlantic slave trade. His dreams of computer programming are not dead, per se, but on hold while he explores a new passion that doesn’t involve sparks and power outages. Anathema, free from prophecy and exploring the new her, has taken to rescuing just about every stray animal that she lays her eyes on. By this time, she’s adopted a boa constrictor that she’d found slithering along the streets of the outer skirts of London, an unnamed litter of baby mice from a nearby sheep farm when she had stopped to buy some wool for yarn (kept strictly separate from Evita, the snake), a pig that had fallen out of a truck speeding away from the main square of Tadfield lovingly named Doug, and a young, spry black stray alley cat that she’s named Howl. It was an animal every other day and Newt was just the slightest bit nervous that she showed no sign of slowing down. Maybe tomorrow it will be an owl, or a sloth.

When Deirdre and Arthur had realized that Adam had taken to someone not of his own age, they had been quick to secure Anathema and Newt as sitters[12], giving them a key with the instructions to let themselves in whenever they were available. The past week, they've walked in on several questionable hijinks devised by Adam, so they are accustomed to strange happenings in the Young household. This time, the not-couple are confronted by the unfamiliar scene of Crowley and Gabriel tangled together in familiarity – not quite to be expected of an angel and a demon. 

“Hi, Crowley,” Anathema says.

“It's been an emotional few days,” he says from the ground. Gabriel doubles down on his sobs, clutching onto his PJs as if his life depends on them.

“I would believe that. Any sign of the great beast this morning?”

“Are you speaking of Adam or the thing in my lap?” Gabriel sniffles a broken, offended _hey!_ into Crowley's thigh. Crowley rolls his eyes. “He's doing his daily rounds, picking up the Them. Should be back soon.”

“Cool. Wanna explain to me what's going on?”

“Ah. That's a long bloody story. First off, our Mum is here.”

“Your mother?”

“Yeah, you know. God.” He gestures towards the back with his thumb.

Anathema goes silent, looking towards the back of the house.

God leans against the door jamb, looking down on Her Archangels with soft eyes.

-

“I think I’ve said before that I have been watching you two very closely since your meeting at the garden.” She says as they make their way down the dirt road. God is riding Anathema’s bike, going impossibly slowly as so the two accompanying Her don’t have to half-jog or otherwise make themselves look a fool, managing to do so without faltering even for a second. “I have to admit that I’ve made decisions around it and because of it, and that things have nearly always turned out for the better when you've both been involved. Your love has shaped history, no matter how recently you've admitted to each other that that love exists. It's given me hope when I've lost mine – and I have lost my hope a few times, make no mistake. I knew that one day, when the time came, you would be there, urging the other on.”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchange a look, each wondering where this line of conversation could possibly end them.

Where it does end them is a dead-end road, a mailbox, and a paved stone drive that leads to a house on a hill in the near distance.

“This is a part of my blessing that you did not ask for. If you want it, well… welcome home.”

The two stare off at the quaint little home, mouths catching flies. Crowley, absolutely flabbergasted, looks back and forth between their Mother and the cottage, trying to form any thought at all. There are about a million half-formed thoughts flitting through his head, and eventually, after quite some time, manages to wonder what the caveat to all of it is.

“I can do whatever you wish with this, I can change the outside, the inside, the surroundings, I can move the entire thing, just push it somewhere else. You may reject it, if that is what you wish.”

“You didn't have to do this, Mother,” Aziraphale says, voice soft and sweet.

“Well duh, I didn't have to. I wanted to and I chose to. But um… Crowley, your curiosity is warranted." Oh, She's reading minds again, Crowley thinks. "I have a proposal, of a sort. Humor me?” She gives them one last twinkling-eyed look and starts down the drive. The cottage is off-white and crawling with vines, making for a picturesque home of English living. As Crowley moves closer, he realizes that it's far larger than he had thought from just looking at it from the road.

The entryway to the house immediately sends Aziraphale into a tizzy. The walls are positively lined with bookshelves, from the bottom corner to above the doorway, impossible to reach if not for the ladder on a rail. The shelves sit empty, teeming with the promise of being full to the brim in the near future.

“Oh, it’s—”

“Bigger on the inside,” Crowley finishes.

God chuckles. “Not by much. An extra room here, an extra square foot there, but it’s no mansion. I didn’t think that either of you would be quite comfortable in that. Ooh! I feel like a real estate agent! This is fun! Shall we move into the kitchen?” She does just that, without waiting for them.

It’s a beautiful home, Aziraphale thinks. The kitchen is big enough to fit people other than just himself and Crowley in, it’s open to both a dining area and the sitting room, and Aziraphale has a quick vision of brunch with… well, everyone. Adam and Them, Adam’s parents, Anathema and Newt, Gabriel and Beelzebub and the rest of the chayot hakodesh and Shadwell and Tracy and…

Family.

Crowley is less absorbed in the details of the architecture and decoration, instead focusing on the meaning behind the acquisition. In Hell, this might mean leverage should he accept. He’s lived Hell for so long that, even though this is a literal gift from God Herself, he’s having a hard time divesting ill intent from any act of genuine kindness. This has been a problem he has been having with Aziraphale this past week, as well. The angel had come home one night from the shops with a small but expensive box of chocolates, all for Crowley. Upon receiving, Crowley had thoroughly checked for poisons. Though he had explained his reasoning to his angel, Aziraphale had still not quite felt comfortable with his reaction. It had never been a problem between them before. Crowley had always trusted Aziraphale implicitly, and vice versa. Aziraphale had admitted his lie to Crowley, concealing that he had figured out where Adam was with the book when Crowley had called the first time. They had talked for a while afterwards, eventually coming to the conclusion that they were both a bit worse for wear after experiencing nearpocalypse and the other’s near death, and had vowed to heal accordingly with each other. He reminds himself of this conversation and assures himself that under no circumstances would God use this against them. There would be no reason for Her to.

God moves towards a brick wall at the end of the kitchen. It looks slightly out of place, just a portion of the entire wall, but Crowley is already thinking of pieces he could put up to accentuate the oddity. She presents the brick wall with a flourish of Her arms.

“Ta daaaa!”

“What is it?” Crowley drawls dully. God drops Her smile and Her arms, almost comedically. She gestures at the archway again.

“It’s a portal to Heaven! Obviously! So that business can be conducted simply and without fuss. Here, watch.” She presses a finger to a brick in the middle, and a portal pops up – Oh, hello. From Her perspective, She sees Vretil, the recordkeeper, typing away at hir keyboard, specifically about the situation at hand. Vretil, typing in the third person, is getting a headache from doing so in conjunction with actually experiencing what ze is usually used to just seeing. Trippy. God waves, as do Aziraphale and Crowley. “This involves you too, so I’m just going to leave this open for a moment. Now, my proposal is this: I want to stay on Earth. I owe as much to Earth and humans as much as I do to you and my other angelic children. I owe _myself_ some amount of emotion. I’m unsure for how long, or the extent to which I’ll be wanting to travel back and forth. I think staying here, in your home, would be a lovely option. What I want… it may not be what you want. I want us all to be a _family_ again. We can start here. Just start. Just try. It’s worth it to try. It’s always worth it.” God is wringing Her hands in Her dress again, clearly nervous[13].

“We’ll… we’ll need to discuss… and I still need time to think, Mother,” Aziraphale says.

God makes eye contact with Vretil, blowing a kiss to the angel before closing the portal again.

“That is very okay. What is it the kids are saying these days? You are valid! Isn’t that a cute one? It’s very positive.” She crooks a warm smile at the two.

If one was able to see Crowley’s eyes through his sunglasses, the crazed, wide-eyed look would be a telltale signal that he is incredibly freaked out. Crowley pulls Aziraphale to the side. He opens and closes his mouth like a fish, trying to form words that just aren’t there. After a moment, he gives up, gesturing his arm generally to the entire house.

“Yes, indeed.”

The two make eye contact, and they stand there for a while having a silent conversation. It might go something like, “WHAT THE HELL”, to which Aziraphale would reply, “YES I KNOW AND I AGREE!”, prompting Crowley to say “WHAT DO WE DO!?”, in which case Aziraphale would answer “I DON’T KNOW, PANIC?”. In the end, however, their love wins out. Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hands in his, eyes roaming over the geography of the angel’s face. He’s always loved Aziraphale’s button nose. It complements his long, beautiful eyelashes, pudgy cheeks, luscious lips… Crowley runs the back of his finger down the bridge of his angel’s nose. Aziraphale’s eyes flutter shut at the touch, savoring the intimacy of the moment. In Rome, Crowley had paid a pretty penny to have a marble bust made of the angel, though he had no idea where that particular statue has ended up over the years.

They nearly forget that their Mother is standing right there. She clears Her throat. Aziraphale smiles apologetically. The two, cheeks rosy, exit into the backyard, holding hands all the way.

She watches through the window, much like the two had been watching Her earlier that morning. The conversation is not heated, but it is clearly intense. And, it’s not so much a conversation as it is Crowley talking at Aziraphale. Aziraphale’s brow furrows as Crowley speaks, concentrating his every ounce of focus onto Crowley’s rant. After a while, Aziraphale holds up a finger and takes off Crowley’s glasses, then motions for him to continue as he tucks them onto the demon’s shirt. Crowley speaks, and speaks, and speaks, and speaks. Slowly, Aziraphale’s brow un-scrunches, a wistful, sorrowful look replacing it. Crowley speaks a little longer, until he reaches a point where clearly he can’t move forward without input from his lover. Aziraphale smiles, looking into Crowley’s eyes with the most sincerity he can show.

God can see his lips moving in a simple affirmative: “Yes.”

Crowley kisses Aziraphale like he’s drowning, and only Aziraphale’s lips can save him. The angel accepts his affections eagerly, wrapping his arms around Crowley’s middle. He picks Crowley up off of the ground, swinging him round in a circle, the demon’s feet popping up to accommodate his new position in the air. They don’t break their kiss as they do this, Crowley digging his hands into Aziraphale’s locks, Aziraphale’s hands digging into Crowley’s slim figure. And suddenly, both of their wings appear, shielding God’s physical view as they share a delightful, cozy moment, wrapped up in each other.

God smiles.

They leave with no rush. God makes a cup of tea for Herself in the kitchen while Aziraphale and Crowley to wander the perimeter of the property, arm in arm. Crowley lays out plans for a garden and Aziraphale plans for where the beehives should go. She takes this as a non-verbal acceptance of Her gift (or at least a part of it).

Crowley catches a glimpse of the address on the mailbox as they leave and snorts. 668 Pomme Lane. Classic.

“We have a request, Mother.”

She quirks an eyebrow at Aziraphale. Aziraphale nudges Crowley with an elbow, and the demon mouths ‘ouch!’ at his angel. He turns to God, clearly uncomfortable.

“Give us a bit to think about your… offer. The house, we’ll take. It’s garishly perfect, so thank you _very_ m-UCH!” Aziraphale elbows him again.

“And your request?”

“Mother, would you do us the honor of officiating our wedding?” Aziraphale rips the band-aid off, relieving Crowley of the askance.

“Oh my— was that what that was?! Did you two just get engaged?! Oh my— Yes! A thousand times yes, of course! Oh, oh my boys, come here!” She ropes them into a bear hug, squealing into their shoulders. The two melt into Her divine joy, hugging Her back as She jostles them to and fro. She lets go, stepping back to look at them with hands clasped over where Her heart would be in Her physical form. “Listen, I’m serious about the blessing. It’s anything. A special book, your wedding, a home, anything you can possibly think of. I could even gift you with child if—”

“NO!”

“Nooooooooooo—”

“Nope!”

“No way, no—”

“Absolutely not.”

“No thanks—”

“No, no, no, no, no—”

“Wow, okay, I think I get the point! You can quit your bellyaching now. Offer’s still on the table, if you change your mind.”

They make their way back towards the Young home, and Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand in his. The angel, always hungry for affection, squeezes Crowley’s hand like it’s the last time he ever will. This isn’t the case in the slightest, of course, but with the offers God has extended and the impending events of the coming days, Aziraphale finds himself a wee bit tense.

“Aziraphale, what position did She offer you?”

Ever so faintly in the distance, the trio hears Wensleydale shouting something.

“Team Rocket’s blasting off again!”

God, Crowley, and Aziraphale turn their heads upwards to the cartoonish sound of what sounds like a bomb[14], and watch a comet fly low overhead and strike close nearby.

Beelzebub lays face down in the dirt, having created a good-sized impact skid, but somehow remaining ramrod straight. The three rush up to the demon (well, God and Aziraphale do, Crowley merely saunters) and attempt to help to the recovery. Beelzebub holds a hand up to stop them and sits up with a swift and smooth. Then, the demon twists to the side, mouth opening to expel an avalanche of nothing but dirt, dirt, dirt, and more dirt. The demon struggles to a stand, pointedly ignoring Aziraphale’s offer of a helping hand[15]. Beelzebub spits once, then speaks.

“Looks like we’ve got a meeting to prepare for.”

* * *

[10] Sandalphon could _never_ replace Sariel.

[11] I would know, I have it right here. ~~Mother, have you truly given up on Metatron? Please, please don’t give up on him now. Please, Mother, I love him.~~

[12] They had tried three times to hire a caretaker for Adam when he was a wee babe. It was a mistake each time and they never tried it again after a treacherous second honeymoon that they had needed to return home early from after the sitter had quit day 2, leaving Adam with the neighbors.

[13] Holy shit, mum.

[14] Crowley and Aziraphale are reminded of the church in 1941, and another incident that shan’t be named here.

[15] Beelzebub is, after all, still a demon, and Aziraphale is, after all, still an angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went back and listened to the Sound of Music soundtrack and realized it’s very telling of God that it’s one of Her favorites. Would anyone be interested in a playlist for this fic? I’ve already made one on my personal Spotify but it has my real name on it so I might make a spoiler-free YouTube version if anyone wants it.
> 
> From the model of Jewish angelic hierarchy that I’m working with, Ishim are the lowest ranking. Neil’s gone on record and said that Aziraphale earned his title of Principality with his role in “The Great Rebellion” or whatever, but I’m smudging this just a little bit in that Ishim is the first ‘rank’ so to speak, while everything under that is an unranked angel with lesser responsibilities. Ishim are sometimes known as ‘personalities’ which I think is as close as I’m going to get to Principality, and they’re also the angels that have the most interaction with humans. So, you know. Aziraphale. (I also kind of imagine that Principality doesn’t have much weight within this model of ranking but still exists as a title.)
> 
> Next chapter we’re moving into some of the more uh… blasphemous stuff, I guess. I’m moving through this fic from a Jewish perspective. The Jewish way – MY Jewish way – is to question everything, interpret the scripture differently and challenge what has already been said. I don’t understand Christianity that well beyond a few reads of the King James translation (yucky) and another translation that I don’t remember well, and I don’t intend on trying to so for the sole purpose of this fic. That being said, Islam is much closer to Judaism than it ever will be to Christianity both culturally and religiously, and I’ll be holding Islam in this fic in a different manner than I am specifically Christianity.
> 
> Also, a quick note: Beelzebub does not use any pronouns! Very much the type of demon to be like “Do Not Refer To Me”, but also just doesn’t use any. So, no they/them, no she/her.  
> 


	7. A Nervous Tic Motion of the Head to the Left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions rise, empires fall, and the nuns are there to see it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cautionary warning for graphic descriptions of bodily harm/torture. As always if you need accommodation around this, I'm happy to explain something further or trim the chapter around its edges to send separately.

There’s somewhat of a problem with lesser demons: they’re wildly unsatisfying to hurt, to play with, or to torture. Satan spends most of his time doing just this, breaking bones to hear the sickly, satisfying crack, wringing the liquid pain out of lost souls… and sometimes he does paperwork, when he feels like it. It’s mostly the torture thing, though.

He's tortured the major arcana of demons, as well, but he tries not to do so unless he has a real reason for it. Those instances tended to make for inconveniences far beyond what he wanted to deal with at all. One time, he had strung Raph- Crowley by his tail and pulled out his venomous fangs, slowly and thoughtfully. He’d burned Naamah with molten iron, frozen Asmodeus in the river that ran through the deepest depths of Hell, clamped a choking claw around Abbadon’s throat until he was begging for his mercy, only for the relief to be replaced by the same breathtaking pain seconds later, a repeated cycle that Satan had relished in.

He had never harmed Beelzebub before this day.

Once upon a time, Satan had been Heaven’s prince. Sat upon a throne woven with golden thread, he would oversee his Father’s plan with ease. Oft, his mind would wander to the deepest depths of Heaven, wondering… dreaming…

Once upon a time in paradise, Beelzebub, then Belial, had captured his attention. The two drew close, chasing each other among the heavens in any free time that Lucif- no, Satan, had been available to do so. When God would call him back to his duties, Beelzebub would give him a forlorn look and return to the assigned guard post. His protector. His favorite of the ophanim. He asked for the angel to be reassigned as his personal guard. Father had said no. He was in no need of a personal guard. Stay on your duties, Lucifer. Mind your position, Lucifer. Set example, Lucifer.

Once upon a time, he found an exogenous tear through a cloud. It tumbled into him, breathing something new and bold into being. It made it very difficult to breathe, a sort of asthmatic reaction. It wasn't all at once. Over time, the suffocating hand that was choked him of his angelic breath. He doesn't remember much of the rest. He doesn't really remember the fall. Blasts of heat and cold and dry and wet. Plunging facefirst to where his Father could no longer hear or see him. Quiet. And then, Beelzebub's healing hands. Crowley's wings encasing him in a cocoon of regenerative energy. A declaration of power.

Upon first hearing of God’s New Great Plan, he had been livid. The molten lava that had dripped from his mouth like drool had created a new, blistering hot river in his realm. Beelzebub was there, fiery-eyed, ready to plot, ready to fight, ready to make a move. Ready to handle him. Ready to calm him. Ready to hold him. In a manner of speaking, Beelzebub channels his emotions into something more coherent.

He walks forth to where Beelzebub has fallen on the ground, still panting from the healing process, and grabs his sibling by the hair, pulling upward as to make the demon look at him. Beelzebub makes a choked sound, then snarls and grabs at his hand, digging broken fingernails into the fleshy part of his palm. For a moment, he allows his surprise to get the better of him. His younger sibling has never before been defiant like this, not before the fall, not after.

If Beelzebub were any other demon, a swift murder would be in store.

“Go.”

His grip softens. So does Beelzebub’s. His sibling looks up at him, and for the first time in a long, long time, he sees something that may or may not be the emotion known as compassion.

“GooooooooOOOOȮ̸̢̮̭̝̿̈͐̈́͜Ǫ̵̪̻̼͍̆ͅO̴͕̦̲͊͋̊̅̄ͅƠ̸̹͈͔̪̗̯͍͒Ò̵͚̠̞̇̍̒̾͆̎͜͠O̷̗͓̘̯͖̣̰̰̤͇̘͛͌Ơ̴̡̢̰͚̞̗̦̫͓̰̠̼̙͎͖̹͍̳̄̊̓̽̕͘͜͜Ȏ̶͇̪̀̄̓͒͊̒͋͝Ǫ̸͇̞̞̰̫̜͚̪͎̖̤̩̼̥̟̙͊̈́̐̌͑͘͜ͅͅO̸̧̨̨͚̠͚̠̪̤̩̰̭̲͙̞̣̼̱͔̝͍͚̒̋̌̍̅͐̔͋̃̃̃͒͑̎͊̽̒̓͆̈̈́͘͘̕̚̚͘͘͝ͅǪ̷̢̧̢̧̻̠̹̟̭̹̣̜̘̥͎͚̻̪͍̣̟̖̩̘̘͎̼̌͒̏͗̔͛͛́̔̅̍͑̈́̃̌̈͛̈̓͌̃̈́̈́͑̈́͛̆͘͘̕̚̕̕͜͜͝͝ͅͅO̷̺̻̟͕͇̰̙͉̲̅̂̆̒̐̌̓̋͒̒͋́̎̋͗͂̽̽̎̅̈́̏͑̍̓̊̉͂͋̾̒͋!!!”

He grabs the demon by the scruff, reels back, and throws the demon upwards. A shower of asphalt and mineral rains down from the hole that Beelzebub has disappeared through onto Satan, sticking in his greasy hair and clammy skin.

Satan pants, throat raw from his outburst.

He wonders for a moment if this was the last time that he would ever see Beelzebub. Perhaps God had stolen his sibling from him permanently.

No, that couldn’t be.

He wouldn’t let that happen. No, no. He would see Beelzebub again. As he would Crowley, as he would Gabriel and Metatron. He planned on seeing them all, very soon.

After all, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

-

Gabriel finds himself between a rock and a hard place. The rock, in this scenario, is the rock known as Earth. The hard place just so happens to be four children – one of whom is the actual, literal antichrist – who have decided to make the angel a part of their new favorite game: first one who stands up is a rotten egg.

“I’m _bored_ ,” Brian says, because it is, indeed, a boring game.

“So stand up, then,” Pepper says.

“Then we win!” Wensleydale exclaims.

“So we would,” Adam replies dully.

Adam, out of the five of them, is the most bored. The reason he is doing this, however, is because his Grandmother had asked him to make good use of Gabriel while She was away. Three child-sized humans were enough for him on a good day and adding in an adult-sized supernatural angel who just happened to be his uncle was an additional challenge that he had not prepared for the night before. He had asked his Grandmother to, if She would be so kind, please warn him in advance next time. She had barked a laugh at the sky and shaken his hand, promising to do just that.

But Adam knows that the angel is sad. Adults have a tendency to forget that children are observant of their emotions. Right now, Gabriel looks like a kicked kitten, lip out in a slight pout. All four of them notice this, of course. Brian’s mum has a tendency to give the same pout when she doesn’t get what she wants, or was expecting. Adam has to do something, and fast, or else this day will take a strange turn that he just doesn’t want to have to deal with today.

“Gabriel, you’re an angel, yes?” Adam asks.

“What? Yeah.” He startles out of his moment of divorced reality.

“Well, show us your wings, then. I've seen Crowley's and Aziraphale's, but Brian, Pepper and Wensley haven't seen any angel wings yet, and that's not fair.” Gabriel freezes. No human has ever asked such a thing of him. In most cases, the moment he unleashes his inhuman likeliness incites a type of panic he's seen unparalleled in even the wake of natural disaster.

“I don’t think you want that.”

“You presume to know what I want. Is that another power that angels have?”

“…No,” Gabriel says, defeated.

And thus, he unfurls his wings. Golden-yellow shines bright, breaking through the black feathers. It’s ben quite some time since he’s let loose like this – since the early 600s, if not earlier. He cricks his neck, relaxing into the comforting weight of his celestial body. It takes him a second to remember that, no, he isn't going to show his entire being! No, Gabriel! Bad! Tsst![16]

Anathema and Newt draw their attention to the group, now, leaving their discussion of the meaning of ‘lemonade’ to be picked up at another time. The witch sets down her book, brow furrowing. To see an aura is one thing, but to see an angel’s wings is another. She’s used to seeing colors. Now, she sees something… incomprehensible. It’s the same type of… energy? That she had seen when God Herself had moved through the Young home, somehow glowing bright without color, something that speaks without a way to speak and breathes without lungs. The more that she thinks about it, the more that her head hurts. Don’t get her wrong, she can still see feathers, but the whole energy thing really scratches her medulla oblongata.

“I think I’d like to have a pair of wings,” Adam says casually. Gabriel’s eyebrows raise high, forehead scrunching into his hairline. His wings retract back into the immaterial plane.

“You can’t just… _make_ wings. Mother made them specially for us, individually. We were never without them.”

“Well, I’m Her grandchild. Wouldn’t it make sense for me to have a pair?”

“I—”

“And, if so, why shouldn’t I choose to have them?”

And then Adam pulls out a pair of fresh, bright wings. Gabriel staggers backwards, fear and anguish bubbling up in a gasp. They’re pure black, save for the top joints, where a splash of flame-colored feathers reminds the archangel-off-duty of his long-lost brother. Reality hits Gabriel. Adam is Lucifer’s child. His brother’s child. Gabriel reaches out a hand, grazing his fingertips against the crimson.

“You should ask first!” Pepper smacks his hand away from Adam. Gabriel yanks his hand away, stuffing it in the pocket of his cloak. “Cheek.”

“Uh. Sorry.”

“What are you going to do with those anyways? You can already fly without, we all saw that when you went bonkers the first time,” Wensleydale pokes at Adam’s upper arm to emphasize his point. Adam halfheartedly nudges him back.

“I just think they’re nice.”

The ground rumbles ominously.

And then it stops.

“That’s not normal for this part of the Earth, right?”

“No.”

It rumbles again, the looser leaves of impending fall on the bushes shaking clean off their branches. Pepper, Adam, and Wensleydale manage to brace themselves, but Gabriel and Brian stumble, barely catching themselves. The upper crust of the middle of the Young’s backyard begins to sprout a hill, and it catches Wensleydale unawares. He tumbles to the ground, landing on his back hard with an ‘oof!’.

“Oh, shit!” It could have been just about any one of them who yells it, but it turns out that it’s Newt, who’s spilled lemonade[17] all over himself.

The shaking swells to a plateau, and as the occupants of the yard struggle to keep balance, a Beelzebub-shaped mass shoots out of the highest point of the hill with a ‘p’tew!’, soaring into the air, eclipsing the sun.

From the ground, Wensleydale, still pointing from poking at Adam, shouts the only words that he can think of.

-

God surveys Beelzebub with a patient gaze.

“Are you okay?” Aziraphale asks.

“Yes,” Beelzebub bites back coldly. Another spit of dirt seems to be in order. God reaches out a helping hand, which Beelzebub takes gratefully. The two share a moment of zen, a conversation of the silent variety. Beelzebub is colder towards God, sliding fingers out of Her grasp and avoiding eye contact. The last few days of casual warmth are gone from Beelzebub’s demeanor. What the demon really wants to do is run away from here, leaving the message of a meeting and getting out while there’s still a chance to find somewhere, anywhere to be. Off Earth. Elsewhere.

Crowley is staring not at the twice-fallen angel, but at the group approaching them. It’s not a familiar sight, Adam with wings. His eyebrows raise and he nudges Aziraphale. The angel goes from paying full attention to the gaggle of children (plus Gabriel).

“Ah, you’ve manifested your wings for the first time!” God says to Adam.

‘Of course She would know that he had wings,’ Gabriel thinks.

“Oh, I’ve had them all this time?”

“You very well could have,” She smiles coyly, glancing at Crowley, “The imagination is a funny thing.”

Beelzebub is looking at Adam with misty eyes. It has been a long day. Beelzebub had been ready, up until now, to crash land and then pass out. Now the demon feels as if a flashback has rammed into reality. Satan’s wings are a leathery remembrance of what they had been, thick from the amalgamation of six melding into two. Beelzebub remembers the soft down of the blue, purple, pink gradient –

“You look ridiculous,” Gabriel says, gesturing to Beelzebub’s dirtied attire.

“Gabriel…,” God warns.

“What? It’s the truth!”

Aziraphale interrupts the heightening conversation. “I believe that we could all _really_ use a good cuppa right about now.”

-

It’s quiet again in the Young house, with Adam having decided to spend the night at Brian’s house and Arthur and Deirdre already retired to bed. The five non-humans marinate in a frenzied air. Their combined powers (minus God’s) combat in a heated fission, metaphysical angelic forms squaring up on each other to size the others up. Worldly corporations had tensed harder and harder over the course of the evening, until Crowley is sticking ram-rod straight and Gabriel is clutching his mug so tightly that a small crack has begun to form around the rim.

“I’d hate to put Arthur and Deirdre out again tomorrow night. Aziraphale, Crowley, if you wouldn’t mind a temporary annex of the cottage, I feel it quite necessary. And given the proverbial pissing contest you’ve all gotten yourselves into, I suggest you all **tone it the fuck down right now.** ” The very much inhuman shake to Her voice sends a bolt of something through their incorporeal beings, and the atomic buzz calms to a barely-there hum[18].

“I am going for a walk. When I come back, I expect you all to be acting **civilly** towards each other.”

She gives them a stern look before She closes the door behind Her, and the four celestial and occult beings are left in the silence that they’ve all been so dreading.

-

“Are you of faith, child?” God turns at the voice. A nun has found Her standing in the chapel, a small electric lantern illuminating the space between them.

She’d walked through the village until She reached an old standing church, teeming with the energies of millions of prayers. With a touch to the weather-stained stone, She had seen a thousand years of weddings, prayer, hardships, love, and grief. Oh, humans. If only they knew. Curious, God had Willed the door unlocked and stepped onto holy ground.

The stained-glass window above the pulpit pictures Jesus Christ, emaciated upon the cross. She can’t help but think that he would hate being pictured like that. He was so much more than a man on a cross.

Yeshua had been a complicated prophet. He had been born much under the same circumstances as Adam, in fact. Mariam was supposed to be pregnant with him a year before, and yet, he never came. She never laid with Yoseph. He didn’t want to. Now, God respected that, and She understood, but it threw quite a wrench in Her Plans.

It was just supposed to be a miracle. Instead, it had kickstarted an entire sect of religion.

He was not Her son.

Not in the way that more than thirty percent of the world believes. He was Her son as much as any human is, as he said when he walked the Earth. Nevertheless, She watched him. Perhaps it had something to do with Her divine intervention, but at times She was certain that he knew that She was. So, She wrote.

He was such a bright child. An odd one, but smart as a whip. Good with people, good in soul, good with words. The epitome of good. Then, during his youth, a demon approacheth. He was kind to the human, speaking of faraway places and pleasures of flesh, bone, and mind. The demon Crowley, the subject of Her larger machinations, inserted himself into Yeshua's life. He had whisked him away on a grand tour of the world, introducing him to cultures far and wide. He showed him a few magic tricks, as well.

She watched with a careful eye.

Nothing happened, obviously. The tour concluded unceremoniously, Crowley saluting the man and walking off into the distance[19]. Yeshua went on to do good work, a rabbi with ideas, irradiant and new.

He died so young.

Like all of Her prophets before him, She met him at his Heavenly gate[20]. Yeshua took Her in in all of Her glory, and he smiled a weary smile. She walked with him around the rim of Heaven, speaking of everything and nothing and in-betweens. He asked not of things that She could not answer and She spoke not of the painful world that would come to be. He understood Her, and She understood him. He turned his head towards his next destinations, and She stood him steady as he moved from here to there.

He was supposed to be the last prophet, but a certain concept came around – the antichrist – and a certain plot began to unfold – the apocalypse – She traced the paths that would lead to the best outcome. God's game is one of guessing. Though She is the dealer in the great game of poker, even She cannot count the cards. Not only is it against the rules, but She doesn't have that skill. God’s powers are intuitive, so inherently a part of Her that trying to pull them apart would be like trying to pull a piece of wood apart like taffy. It's just like chemistry. She may have created the Earth, but humans discovered what makes the dirt. So, when She found Agnes Nutter, age six, and gifted her with the powers of the prophets before her, She had no idea what the girl would do with those powers. It turns out, channeling God directly was in her books. Literally. Together, God and Agnes Nutter wrote her book of prophesies[21].

It's bizarre how much the nun in front of God looks like Agnes.

“My name is a bit of a complicated matter,” God answers.

“What brings you here, dear?”

She doesn’t answer right away. The thing about meeting Her creations is that She can choose what She knows about them – in a moment, the nun’s entire life could be at Her hands, in Her mind, a part of Her very being. She _could_ do that. What fun would that be?

“I am at a turning point. I have decisions to make, the likes of which will sow change in the very depths of humankind. I’m not ready to make them.” She turns Her head back towards the glass. A streetlamp illuminates a green panel of glass, the light sliding across the chapel floor. Not a single speck of dust taints the stream of light. The nuns keep the place impeccable. It sits in God comfortably.

“Ah. I see.” The nun gestures Her towards a pew and she sits, inviting God with an air of welcoming. God should really be going. She sits.

“I fear for myself. I fear for my children.”

-

The children are not alright.

“Now look what you’ve done!” Gabriel exclaims, pointing an accusatory glare at Beelzebub.

The demon snarls. “Me? If anything, you’re the one upsetting Her.”

“She still hasn’t given me any orders. I’m not really being punished, I’m being demoted.”

“You moron. Who said anything about punishment?” All of the air sucks out of the room like a vacuum. The smirk on Gabriel’s face falls. “For all intents and purposes, you could consider this a punishment, hanging with the crew – if that’s what you want. Open your _bloody_ ears! Listen to your mother for once! Maybe you’ll find something actually useful!”

Gabriel says nothing. Instead, he stares. His mouth quirks into a disgusted snarl, and he leans forward slowly, putting show into an action that really means nothing. “You’re nothing but a wingless fly, Beelzebub.”

“Birdbrain!”

“Fleabag!”

To say that the rebellion in Heaven was stupid is no exaggeration. They fought before fighting had been invented, as such, most skirmishes had been escalated to a slappy game, much like human children have come to inherit into their fighting vocabulary.

Fighting between angels and demons since has become far more sophisticated. It tends to air anywhere between Home Alone-style trickster wars, such as Crowley's typical shenanigans over the years (though he has had full reign with his creativity while most demons stagnated and began to pull from a pool of regurgitated ideas in the 14th century), to full-blown Krav Maga, which is what both Gabriel and Beelzebub are squaring up for.

“You… you fart-breathed suck up!”

“You’re one to talk! Look at how much you’ve cuddled up to Mother, like any amount of sweet talk can talk you out of demonic legacy. It’s sickening!” Gabriel uses that smug tone of voice he has when he’s gaslighting the shit out of one of the angels under his command. Beelzebub bristles, standing from the small armchair next to Crowley.

“Shut the fffffffack up you hivemind simpleton, we are all trying to save your _life_ and you think you can just say shit about my character like you know me? We’ve HARDLY worked together! What you gonna do? Hm? You gonna hit me, Mister Holier-than-thou? Sanction me? _Cut off my wings?_ ” Whoever said that angels are beings who lack vice have clearly never met one before. Gabriel launches at Beelzebub, claws growing from his nails and eyes flickering with something that even Crowley has never seen from his little brother before. Gabriel and Beelzebub clash together in a tangle of limbs.

“Woah!”

“Okay, okay!”

Crowley tries to insert himself into the middle of the dueling, having about as much success as any human intermediary does when a fight breaks out between mates after a night out at the bars. He doesn’t manage to pull them apart, but he does manage to shove them out of the house in into the backyard. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the part that’s not occupied with keeping Gabriel and Beelzebub from killing each other, he hopes that their shouting hasn’t further upset the Young’s sleep schedules.

“JUST STOP IT!” Aziraphale yells at the top of his lungs. Everything stops. The silence drips with Aziraphale’s upset. “Gabriel…” Aziraphale adjusts his jacket in the cool English night air. He doesn’t really feel it, not without making an effort to feel it the way that a human does, but he takes comfort in the act of it. He’s trying to not look nervous, but he to ask now that he has a chance. If he doesn’t… “Gabriel, why my wings? What could _possess_ you to do something so… so utterly monstrous?”

“You needed to hurt.”

Crowley steps to Aziraphale from between the others, away from Gabriel. His mouth stings with bitter venom, the taste of which stains the air between them.

“I forgive you.” The waver in Aziraphale’s voice gives away his standing in the matter, but he’s trying his darnedest to be brave in saying this.

“I’ve done nothing to be forgiven for.”

“You think that you’re still in the right when our own Mother came down to _stop you_?” Crowley steps into Gabriel’s personal space, tongue still dripping with venom. He’s choking down ever emotion he’s felt for his younger brother in the past day, trying not to let them influence his words. Aziraphale before this. Always Aziraphale before himself. “You’re so damned lucky, Gabriel. So lucky that She intervened. No angel is immune to Purgatory’s propaganda. It’d be in your very best fucking interests to re-evaluate everything about yourself. Right now. **You’re running out of time, brother**.” Crowley growls the last part, and though it’s not with the same weight as their Mother’s all-encompassing rumble, something purely powerful permeates their corporeal beings, their celestial and demonic selves, and Gabriel is reminded just how influential his older brother’s mere presence had been before he fell.

Gabriel is an Archangel. As such, he’s never questioned… anything. Himself, his Mother, others… Mostly, that’s been Michael’s job, to question the others. Perhaps it’s a side effect of being one of the youngest.

‘Maybe it’s time for that to change,’ the smallest part of himself whispers.

He doesn’t crumble to pieces in the same way that he had earlier in Crowley’s arms. It hits him like a pit of growing dread, but a fast blow that strikes him low, in his gut… up his chest… into his limbs… spreading through his wings… spearing into his throat… seeping into his head in an explosion of icy hot almost-pain...! He can’t stand – he loses his balance and tumbles for what seems like days before he hits a couch cushion behind him. When did they get back inside? Gabriel clutches at his hair, fingernails tearing into his scalp in no hesitant way since pain to his physical form doesn't mean much. Gentle hands pull his own away, and he's looking into deep blue eyes.

“I needn’t say it again.” Aziraphale says.

And he doesn't.

“Well. Suppose that's that then,” Crowley says. Beelzebub does the fastest double take in recorded history.

“You're fucking kidding, right?"

Aziraphale gives Beelzebub a pleading look. He's taken Gabriel’s hands in his, comforting him on only a surface level, the only comfort he wants to give. “We're all in a tizzy from the past weeks, and we all…,” he pauses, struggling to find words, “we all need a break.”

“Bloody ridiculous.”

“We could all use a bit of tender, loving care.”

“Oh that’s cheesy even for you, angel.”

“If we all have a nice grooming, will you all just shut it?”

“Sounds good to me, love.”

“…I suppose we could come to an underzzztanding.”

“Wine, anyone?”

-

“Why did you devote yourself to God, Sister?” She has heard more abrasive questions from people within her own congregation. Those of the Catholic church tend to do such things.

“Well… I was lost.” The nun settles back into her seat, looking up to the glass where the woman beside her was staring just moments ago. “I lost a loved one and I was lost as well. The church was here for me.”

“No, really.”

“What?”

“Why did you _really_ do it?” Stunned, the nun opens her mouth in a small gape. Most people don’t get it. There had been once, when a younger nun had discerned the larger meanings behind her simple struggles, but she had been gone nigh a week later, run off with another new initiate, wildly in love.

“The bills added up, after erm… after Henry, my son, passed. Spinal cord tumors. He was only two. It was fast, he wasn’t ever in any pain, and I just… I had to try to understand, you know, all those typical questions you have when you lose a child. Why him? Or, why then? Even, why did God let this happen? I had nowhere else to go and the Superior was kind to me. It helped. I found my peace here. I cleaned myself up, found purpose in the routines, in God’s word. I see him, sometimes, not literally mind you, but in our hymns and in our study. It’s enough.”

God hums. She’s familiar with the story. Eight billion people in the world, and yet, it is such a small world. She can feel the faith in the nun’s prayers, the morning hymns and the individual stories of the women who live these halls thrumming through Her. She grabs for the book in the sleeve in front of Her and flips through the yellowed pages of the King James, landing on the last.

“It’s a terrible ending. Of the English translations, this is probably my least favorite.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed. I prefer the Torah, to be honest with you. It’s not perfect in translation, but the Hebrew version, that’s prime right there. I’m so sorry, I have not asked your name.”

“I am Sister Marie.” God barks a laugh that echoes high. While usually Sister Marie would find it in her to feel at least a little bit offended, instead the anonymous woman's laugh worms a warm little hole into her soul, “I find myself at a disadvantage. You know my name, perhaps you could tell me yours?”

God gives an impish smirk, standing.

“It's a bit ineffable.”

God scoots past Sister Marie and walks towards the entrance.

“Wait!”

She stops, looking back over Her shoulder.

“Who _are_ you?” God shakes Her head, giving her a warm, loving look. Then, She turns and skips out of the chapel, singing…

_“Just a small town girl..”_

Sister Marie does not sleep the rest of that night. She lies awake, thinking of the kind young woman who had skipped out of the church singing, waking not only the Superior but the other sisters as well. Nobody had been particularly disgruntled at the disturbance, the firm belief that a person in need of God is a person in need, no matter the time.

When she’s preparing her robes for laundering, she grazes her hand against something that certainly hadn’t been in her pocket the night before[22]. It’s a business card. For a moment, there’s nothing there. Or, it must have been there, she just hadn’t seen it.

you know who ;)

She shows the card to Mother Superior. The Superior is quick to dismiss it, certain that it must be a trick card of some sort. Marie laments over the card later in the day, in her free time before supper. She twirls it on the corners, running fingertips delicately over the golden script. It’s not a flowy handwriting, almost chicken scratch, a hasty afterthought. Then, the script appears before her very eyes.

Revelations 3:11

She holds the card in both hands and dips into prayer where she is standing in the courtyard, alarming a gaggle of the younger girls. Though they try to help her, she refuses to stand from her position on the ground, for Sister Marie is certain that she has met God.

And God is the brightest woman she has ever seen.

-

This is the story of a lonely God.

She imagined stepping outside. She imagined stepping onto the soft earth, the delicate sands, the deep sea’s rocks. In Greece, a man imagined a Goddess, Gaia, and so she was. God would watch a sparrow flying from its nest for the first time and then she would watch as a man in Japan fed his child alone. She listened to the Sound of Music. She listened to it again, and again, and it bounced off the pillars of Heaven until an angel said, ‘this must be Her favorite’. She envied Maria so.

This is the story of how She grieved.

Too long, one would say, to spend alone in Heaven. Watching the deeds and misdeeds of humans with a curious eye, limited interactions with any other being, that can take a toll on you, it can. Wallowing. Hungry for more.

This is the story of how She learned.

God, Aziraphale, and Crowley are made of the same stuff. Yearning. Desperate for just one touch. Knowing you can’t make the move. Wondering why things are the way that they are. Trying to change them. She lived vicariously through Her children without their permission and She is ready to move on.

Heaven and Hell wait with bated breath for a war that will not come.

God stops at a 24-hour convenience store and lifts a burner mobile. It's not so much stealing as much it is making it so that it was never there in the first place.

> G: Darling?
> 
> v: Tell me the truth.
> 
> G: I’m so sorry, my love.
> 
> v: Please
> 
> G: There’s nothing that I can do now.
> 
> v: Anything
> 
> G: No.
> 
> v: I’ll do anything to help, just tell me
> 
> G: Vretil, He’s gone.
> 
> v: Metatron is strong
> 
> v: He can do this
> 
> v: He can fight.
> 
> G: Trust me. Please trust me.
> 
> v: Yes, Mother.
> 
> v: Don’t give up on him, that’s stupid.
> 
> G: Noted :)
> 
> G: Stay handy?
> 
> v: Here whenever you need me.

This is the story of God come to Earth.

She opens the door to the parlor and finds a mess of feathers. Each with their wings out, Aziraphale, Crowley, Gabriel, and Beelzebub huddle together in a nest, stolen cushions and feathers plucked from a grooming session bringing them good coze for a midnight nap. Beelzebub is splayed, face-down across at least one limb of each of the others. Gabriel looks half-relaxed, slumped against the front of the couch, arms crossed and brows furrowed as he experiences some weird angelic version of R.E.M. Aziraphale and Crowley hold hands as they snooze, Crowley snoring loud with his mouth wide open and – ah, Aziraphale isn’t asleep, of course he isn’t. He side-eyes at Her with those striking blue eyes, singing a harmony of the same love She had seen in the bookshop. He looks to Gabriel, and oh, She’s so relieved as a tendril of Gabriel’s wispy angelic aura reaches out to Her, still so weak, an echo of the times before. But he's here. He's healing. She looks on them with wistful love, wondering if now is the time to join in. Her burner rings, the caller ID announcing a name that makes Her heart catch in Her throat.

This is the story of how humanity wasn’t ready.

** SATAN IS CALLING... **

* * *

[16] The archangel's inner monologues often air towards some of the more stranger bits of human society that he's picked up over the years. See above.

[17] Be that whichever definition of the word that they will end up settling on.

[18] The barely-there part being Beelzebub’s usual swarm of flies.

[19] To find Aziraphale –-he had brought some souvenirs back just for the angel but would never admit it at that point in time. Aziraphale knew.

[20] They were the only times She left Her chambers in all of Her years, and She made sure that nobody saw Her, that nobody knew.

[21] It’s really more God’s than Agnes’.

[22] Before she had joined the convent, she had been somewhat of a hoarder. Keeping things in her pockets spells for bad habits to reemerge. Best not to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the incredibly late update, I've been ill and busy and busy and ill.
> 
> I don't know shit about Catholicism. I talked to a friend who grew up in it and who still finds home in it, but beyond that, that's pretty much all the research I've done. Again, I don't really intend to delve that deep into it. This is here for a reason, but beyond that, this is still a very Jewish fic. This chapter didn't turn out as blasphemous as I thought it might be, maybe? Up to interpretation, probably.
> 
> Thanks for sticking around c:
> 
>  **Edit, 2 minutes after posting:**  
>  Forgot to add a sentence I had meant to add. Should clarify things if you're somehow already reading this two minutes after posting.


	8. A Heart is a Heavy Burden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The unnamed game continues, and the hearts are aflurry.

What do angels dream of?

It’s an ages old questions that the humans had begun to ask during the time of the first book, terrified of the angelic true form and trying to rationalize incomprehensible beings of power. Humanize them.

Typically, an angel’s dreams lean towards the fluffy and light, good deeds yet to be done and kind words yet to be said. Aziraphale doesn’t dream often, as his sleeping patterns reflect his more chaotic tendencies. Fluff and stuff has its place in his dreams, but it lends its place as a cushion to the harsh and buried fears that manifest in his dreamosphere. Demons, on the other hand, dream of the strange and unfamiliar. In the case of the demon Crowley, this… well… it’s never been good. Crowley has slept an awful lot throughout his lifetime. Though not entirely deliberately, this has been a form of self-harm for Crowley that hasn’t quite gone away. Maybe. It’s only been a week and a half, after all. There is still time for change.

Funnily enough, humans don’t tend to ask the same of God. What _does_ God dream of?

This presumes that God sleeps, which She does, but only for the dreams. They’re almost memories. God’s dreams, when She has them, are not quite dreams, not quite prophetic, they’re somewhere in between and beyond.

Trilling insects lull Her to sleep in the muggy August night, Her mobile slipping out of Her hand and onto the carpeted floor.

_It’s a ripping tidal wave. The sailors on board see first, a beak. They’ve caught a giant squid once before, in the eerily quiet morn on the pacific sea, when the water had been lapping only gently against the boat’s body and the first mate, Xuezao, had only just brewed the crew the first pot of coffee. This is no giant squid. Some sailors freeze or drop to their knees, others flee or man their positions in vain. And now Crowley is helping the children aboard, saving them from the flood, and… no, that’s not right. The kraken rises from the sea, and the boat teeters on its head, and then, it tumbles._

_They died. They really died._

_God sits in the roiling ocean, breathing in salty brine and waiting, waiting for something else, something just at the edge of Her consciousness. Esoteric fish brush slimy scales against Her legs in a school large enough to eclipse the deep navy blue under the dark sky… And then, the garden begins to bloom, from the bottom of the sea to the tips of Her fingers, and She is here, in Eden, and She hears Aziraphale singing the sweetest of melodies, a cold and broken, “Hallelujah”. He watches a serpent walk away, and he sings softly to the lost ones, the pregnant Eve thrusting the sword herself to protect her fallen lover. Though Aziraphale is too far now for them to hear, the human woman lifts her face to the skies above and sings the same._

_The scene shifts, Aziraphale’s place on the wall staying the same while marble forms out of greenery and leaf, white pillars morph out of bark and wood, and the dirt beneath Her feet crumbles together until it’s smooth stone. The garden’s natural zigs and zags turn into the Basilica San Pietro’s smooth architecture. The obelisk grows tall out of the ground, and God stumbles to the side to avoid the spear soaring into the sky. The Vatican burgeons to existence around Her and She lands hard, eyes darting back to Aziraphale. Instead, She spots none other than the nun She had spoken with that night. Marie. The nun stands before the doors to the Basilica, hand hovering to open and surprised at God’s sudden appearance. Before God can stand, before She can do anything at all, the door creaks open. A vague hand reaches out, grabbing Sister Marie and pulling her in screaming. God reaches out, scrambling to try and stand, but it’s too late. The hard stone turns soft, and She can see the dark void that borders Heaven seeping through the cracks._

_Atop the Basilica, Aziraphale makes eye contact with Her. Haunted. Disgusted. Pitying._

_“Hallelujah.”_

_She falls._

She gasps, sitting up in a tangle of old quilts from where She’s nested herself on the couch, grasping at the place where a human’s heart would be. Panicked, She searches for— oh. There they are. They’re fine. They’re just fine. Except, where are Aziraphale and Crowley? Retired upstairs, reveals a quick check, safe and sound and _very naked, okay, private time then!_

Everything is fine then, really.

Except that Her heart – Her heart?

It won’t stop beating.

And it’s something about this heart, conjured without intention, that soothes Her from relinquished fear. She scrambles for Her mobile where it’s landed on the floor and frantically texts… oh, me.

> G: Are you there?
> 
> v: It’s me, Margaret
> 
> G: Vretil…
> 
> v: I’m sorry, I am attempting to cope through humor as some of the younger years of humans have taken to.
> 
> G: You’ve come to terms then?
> 
> v: NO
> 
> v: Sorry
> 
> v: Fuck
> 
> v: Sorry
> 
> G: It's alright, my love. You're going through something incredibly hard.
> 
> v: He's my best friend.
> 
> G: And you were his.
> 
> G: He's already lost, Vretil. There's nothing I can do.
> 
> v: I know.
> 
> G: When I return, we will grieve together and give him the proper rites.
> 
> G: Vretil.
> 
> G: Vretil?
> 
> v: Sorry, I just needed a moment.
> 
> G: You will more than likely need a few more moments.
> 
> G: I love you very much, and I need you to buckle down now. Are you going to be able to do that?
> 
> v: Yes, mother.
> 
> G: Vretil, I am learning new things about myself by the moment.
> 
> v: Is that a good thing?
> 
> G: I believe it’s about time I got around to it.
> 
> v: I’m glad, Mother.
> 
> G: It means that I’m changing. I’m making choices that I would have perhaps not made before.
> 
> G: That’s different, and it means that I need you to be very careful.
> 
> G: You saw my dream. Something is afoot.
> 
> v: I’ll be as careful as I possibly can.
> 
> G: I need you to move Metatron.

I… what?

> v: Mother?
> 
> G: Please, I need you to do this. I need you to move him to his chambers.
> 
> v: Yes, Mother.
> 
> G: Thank you. We’ll speak soon. I’ll call you.

God puts the phone down and stares at it for a moment, taking a moment to switch gears before scrolling to the far-too-long number that had called the night before.

**_We’re sorry, the number you are trying to reach is unavailable, please t—_ **

Click.

She’ll call back later.

-

Aziraphale wakes to a warm body and a crisp breeze fluttering the curtains into the room. He does sleep, you see, just when he really wants to, and did he ever want to last night. Crowley's fingers press into his hip and he feels the telltale feeling of a snake's tongue flit against the back of his ear. He smiles turning to see the warm gaze of his lover's yellow eyes.

_Lover._

He's still not used to it. The label, at least. They'd had a conversation a few days into their celebrations of new beginnings about when things had changed for each other. Aziraphale fell in love with Crowley in one hard drop, briefcase in his hands and heart in his throat as he watched the demon rather ungracefully navigate the rubble of the church in 1941. He'd been teetering for some time, trying to understand the feelings. Turns out, he hadn't needed to. He just needed to feel them. Crowley’s experience was entirely different. It had started in the garden as a small amusement. Peculiar, how small things can end up so big. Crowley, over time, fell, and fell, and fell, and fell, and before he knew it, he was there, thoroughly in love with no regrets.

And now they were there together. They're lovers. Aziraphale doesn't have to worry anymore.

Bollocks. He has plenty to worry about. What is She _thinking_? He can't take Metatron's place! It's absolutely out of the question! He can't even understand what could have possibly made Her consider him as an option in the slightest.

“I can hear you thinking. What's up?”

Aziraphale sits up and confesses his troubles in a slew of complicated words, not stopping until he's thoroughly spent.

“Well,” Crowley ponders, “that's a lot.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

Crowley pauses, considering Aziraphale for a moment. “Yeah.” The angel buries his face in his hands, shaking his head. “Suppose I could think of something else to say if that's what you want.”

“That would be very much appreciated.”

“She's Mum. Do you really need anything more than that?”

Aziraphale takes a moment to really consider Crowley’s words. “That’s something I never thought I’d hear out of you.”

“People can change, angel.”

“… do you reckon we’re people?” Crowley inhales sharply, opening his mouth in that way of his, moving the words he wants to speak without being able to. Over the many years that the two have been together, Aziraphale has challenged Crowley in every possible way. He’s used to it. That doesn’t make it any easier. Crowley thinks, and thinks, and thinks, long enough that Aziraphale decides to take the opportunity to ready himself for the morning. Just when he thinks that maybe Crowley won’t answer him, he feels a hand rest on his shoulder. Crowley scoots up behind Aziraphale where he’s sat on the bed to tie his shoes.

“I don’t know, Aziraphale.” Crowley croons in a voice saved especially for Aziraphale. Cracking this voice out has an immediate calming effect on his lover. He relaxes into Crowley's embrace, looking halfway over his shoulder. “Although… does make me wonder… is Mother?”

“Hmmm…” Aziraphale looks to Crowley full on, now, quirking a smirk. “I rather think She is.”

Crowley tilts his head, scratching his chin as if to make himself look quizzical. “Suppose that means we are as well,” Crowley posits teasingly. Aziraphale’s smirk breaches into a soft smile. The demon brings the hand he’s not resting on to the back of Aziraphale’s head, taking a moment to take him in. “Do you remember the walk we took after you gifted me with the thermos?”

Aziraphale hums an affirmation. “To SoHo Square.”

“And we stopped in front of that… dinky little… hut!”

“Oh, it’s just horrific!” Aziraphale chuckles.

“And I…,” Crowley trails off, choking on his words, “nearly…” He stops entirely.

Aziraphale brings the back of his pointer finger to his lover's chin, drawing him into a kiss. They’re still exploring each other, and even as familiar as they are with each other, every touch, every kiss feels new and exciting. Crowley breaks the kiss, resting his hand on Aziraphale’s nape. “I wanted you to,” Aziraphale rumbles.

“Now we can.” Crowley surges back into the kiss, chasing the whisper of every ‘almost’ they had with each other. The demon pushes the already-clothed Aziraphale back down onto the bed, kissing the living daylights out of him. Aziraphale thinks to himself, he should object. After all, it is quite improper to do this while he clothed and Crowley not. The thought gets pushed to the back of his mind in favor of savouring the feeling of his lover’s mouth.

From downstairs, the sound of clattering metal jerks them out of their kiss, and they stare at each other, panting into each other’s mouths for a moment. Aziraphale claps Crowley on the back. “Time to go, then!”

-

Deirdre sips her coffee alone. In the mornings, Arthur goes off first, having an early start at 6am, and she leaves at half eight to drop off Adam at wherever he seems to be destined that day in order to be at her desk at five ‘til. She has a bit of extra time today, since Adam's kipped[23] at Brian's for the night. And then, God glides into the room, helping Herself to a mug.

“Good morning, Deirdre.”

“… good morning.”

God leans against the counter, sipping her tea, and the two settle into an incredibly awkward silence.

“So what do you do, Deirdre?” Deirdre clatters her spoon into the sink, looking at God incredulously.

“You made it clear as day the last time we spoke that you've watched our family since before Adam was born, so you know that answer. Why even bother asking?” God ponders this for a moment, stirring Her coffee. She shrugs.

“It's nice to hear. You have a different perspective than I do, so you might have a different answer to that than I.”

“I'm a mechanical engineer, leading a team in creating a new system for charging electric vehicles. The fun stuff.”

God CANNOT STAND small talk. She’s older than the universe and She’s heard it all by now. It’s nice when Deirdre breaches something on her mind that doesn’t have an easy answer.

“Do you really look like that?” she asks.

“What, black?”

“No! Like… young, and stuff.”

Well, that’s a new one. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at, I’m sorry.”

“It’s just that you’re… you’re not exactly wise-looking. No crow’s feet, all the color still in your hair… Just… I know plenty of smart young’uns, but wise? Nah. Sort of thought you might look like you’ve seen some shit.”

“I have, indeed, seen some shit. I _created_ some shit.”

“You just look… human.”

“These aren't my words, but ‘God created humankind in Her image' is a statement close enough to truth.”

Deirdre quirks her mouth. She can accept that, she supposes. It’s sort of hard to argue with the being that knows the true truth of all things. They lapse into an awkward silence. God sits ramrod straight, eyes flitting from one part of the kitchen to the next, trying to find the course of conversation that would prove most beneficial for both parties. She had tried to hit everything in the conversation they initially had, but when it comes to the topic that She has not breached, it’s better brought up in private. Come the time to bite the bullet, God hesitates not.

“Deirdre… don’t blame Crowley for the switch.”

“Sorry?”

“It wasn’t really him.”

And it wasn’t.

God plays games. Or at least, somewhat. Is it still a game if nobody is playing? Or if you’re dealing cards to unwilling participants? Introduce a card that isn’t allowed, a joker. If it’s not supposed to be there in the first place, how can anybody else be expected to be responsible for playing into a rigged game, except for God Herself?

“I induced your labor, just by a few hours. Your child still would have been early, but just a tad later.”

Deirdre sets her mug on the table between them with a thud, coffee sloshing over the rim and painting a bean-colored Rorschach. Divine intervention, with her birth. What inconvenient timing.

Deirdre and Arthur had had trouble conceiving. Two years after they had started to try, they finally figured it was worth a visit to a medical professional. It wasn’t that either of them were entirely sterile, it was just that neither of them had much potential. So, IVF treatment it was. And they tried, and they tried, and they tried again. One older nurse, tongue loose from decades of the daily grind, had quipped a joke on how long it was taking for them to achieve conception. They’d both been, at that point, just about ready to make a pact with the devil. They were both so tired, with surgical interventions taking a toll on their bodies and the additional time away from their friends and family eviscerating their social life. And it seemed like a miracle the day that the test came back positive, and positive again, and positive thrice, because they just couldn’t believe it and hadn’t wanted to get themselves worked up over a false positive. If it hadn't been for Arthur, Deirdre would have thought it immaculate conception.

“So you took my child and gave him to someone else, just so that Adam, the antichrist, the child of Satan, would be placed in our care. That we would raise him as our son.”

“Quite biblical, isn't it?” God drawls sarcastically, looking out the window to appease Her guilt.

“Fuck you.”

Motherhood is such a complicated thing. God has watched mothers across Her world since the very beginning, starting with Eve and soon followed by others. And, well, She’s a mother Herself. At least in some sense of the word. A mother’s suffering has never given Her any happiness.

“… where's my son now? The one I gave birth to?”

“London. His father is the American ambassador to the U.K. Impressive, considering how many presidents the United States has been through by now, usually there’s some amount of turnover in Ambassadorship when parties change, but Thaddeus has always been a people-pleaser.” In truth, some of it was Her. She didn’t do much, really, nothing that would interfere with the dealings of the mortal world, considering that Tad was such a suckup that he would do just about anything for the incoming U.S. presidents in order to stay in his position. The man had no moral backbone. It was more convenient for Aziraphale and Crowley to stay in the London area than to have the Dowling’s return to America, would have made for just a bit of awkward finagling with travel, so all God had had to do was ensure that a dinner or two socially went well for Tad. “He likes birds and playing video games.”

Deirdre considers God’s words for a moment, looking deep into Her brown eyes and seeing nothing but her own reflection. “Is he happy?”

God thinks to Warlock’s upbringing. Tad and Harriet are distant parents. Christmastime at the Dowling household is always a lonely one, with Harriet tending to find other places to be and Tad finding a sorry work excuse to be in D.C., which mostly turns out to be true when he isn’t wetting his whistle with ‘just his assistant, please, Harriet, don’t be ridiculous’. Of course, Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis were always there, with Nanny cracking nutcrackers into kindling for the fire and Francis roasting pralines while chastising her. He would laugh and play along and pretend that he didn’t know at all that there was something between the two. Warlock loves Nanny and Francis. They’ve been there for him through thick and thin, de-facto parents in his young years. Still, the staunch loneliness of abandonment sows its seeds into the fabric of his adolescent soul.

“No. I’m so sorry, Deirdre.” Deirdre lets silent tears slip, clutching her cup as if it’s her only anchor. God’s shoulders sag, and She reaches out to comfort her.

“Don't _fucking_ touch me!”

Deirdre shrugs Her hand away, standing rapidly and knocking over the container that holds the frequently used kitchen utensils in the process. She paces around the kitchen island, hands in her hair, taking deep breaths. Finally, she stands in front of God, arms moving to a stern cross, comforting herself in the process.

“I was raised a Christian. I can’t say to what you think or why you do what you do. Nobody can, you’re God! But that doesn’t mean that you’re infallible! It doesn’t mean that you can’t do wrong! This was wrong. This was so wrong. I don’t believe that there wasn’t another option, I just don’t. Why the _hell_ didn’t you tell me this in the first place?” Face red, Deirdre turns away from the creator and gazes out of the kitchen window, trying to formulate her thoughts into something at least a little bit cohesive. “Oh God, just listen to me – I mean… fuck. I can’t even take your name in vain while you’re around, it just sounds like I’m talking to you. I can’t…”

And in that moment, Deirdre makes a decision.

Fuck work.

“Deirdre, what are you doing?”

She gathers her keys and purse in a hurry, stepping over the spilled cutlery.

“I’m going to get my _child_ back!”

The door slams, and God, bewildered, rests a heavy hand on the back of the chair that Deirdre has just evacuated. Shit. Just when She thinks She has a semi-grasp on humans, they manage to get a jump on Her again.

The back door slides shut, and Adam clears his throat.

“You really shouldn’t have got mum angry like that, when she gets something in her head, she sees to it. Honestly, you’d think I could turn my back for a moment without you lot being drama queens.”

“Wait ‘til you get older, kiddo, familial traits pass down in this one.”

In the next room over, Gabriel and Beelzebub wake, entwined in each other’s downy wings, still in a syrupy, sleepy haze. They share a tender look.

And then they realize who they’re clinging onto.

“FUCK!”

“OH, EW!”

God leans back in Her chair, just enough so that She can see peer into the other room and watch the scuttling angels retract their wings with a blush. She rolls Her eyes. “Oh please, would you two drop it already? There's no shame in admitting that an angel and a demon enjoy each other’s company. That's coming from God Herself!” Her chair snaps back down on the kitchen tile as Beelzebub scurries into the powder room and Gabriel pulls on his trench coat, disappearing out the back sliding door. Adam steps forward to avoid the hurried Archangel-on-leave.

“How much of that did you hear?”

“All of it. But I already figured.”

The antichrist stares at God.

And God stares back.

She gestures for him to take a seat, and he does.

“You are something else, Adam Young.”

“Not any more than my friends.”

“I concur.” She pours him a cup of tea and they settle into a comfortable silence. “Adam, I received a phone call last night.”

Adam sips his tea, not breaking his gaze with his Grandmother. “And?”

“Lucifer would like to see you. There’s a time and a place set, if you wish to-”

A creaky protest from the bottom step of the staircase announces Aziraphale’s entry, a half-dressed Crowley right behind him.

“Abso-LUTELY not!”

-

Aziraphale finds himself on the ledge of a cliff. The change of scenery is jarring, and he gasps sharply. He recognizes this place. Sussex. The Seven Sisters. Showers of spray mist on them from the waves below – waves that shouldn’t be as high as they are. He finds himself unable to move and swivels his head to see Crowley and Adam in the same predicament.

God stands before the three in Her human form, gazing out to the crashing waves below.

“I made the seven Archangels before I understood emotion – my own, as well as how it can work. My emotion reflected on their beings like a mirror…” She stops, sighing, “and my connection between them and I was cemented. And then much later came Azazel, when I had more of a grasp on myself. Azazel was… well, different, to say the least. I always hated that name for the four of them, ‘The Horsemen’. They get caught together one time and suddenly they’re a crew! Hah!” She pauses, gazing out to the cold, ash-coloured waters. “Then I went through a phase, I guess, creating as many as I could. Of course, that doesn’t mean that I don’t remember them each as uniquely as I do. Oh, but Aziraphale, then you came along, sugar and spice and everything nice!” She spins, reaches into to his chest and makes a grabbing motion _in_ and then rather abruptly _out_ and there’s his heart.

It doesn’t hurt. He has that little gasping face of his for just a moment, and then he comes to this stark realization. She grins, the mad inventor gazing at Her creation. She makes the same motion that She had with Crowley, and Aziraphale is laid bare.

It’s a _lot_ of paper. Different kinds of paper litter the space between them – some delicate pieces with silver-lined edges, others tear-stained and crumpled, folded triangles and empty paper packets of salt and sugar and paper airplanes zooming about. Then, there’s honeyed figs with fresh rosemary, an embroidered starry blue glove of the left variety, small bits of white-hot flame dancing among the flammable items delicately, maple seeds helicoptering about, and small waterspouts swirling in and out of their own existences. God beckons Her hand, and his core floats gently to Her open palm. IAt first glance it's _eyes, eyes, eyes, nothing but eyes,_ a bright twisting light exuding an uneasy feeling of 'there's something in there', but as the eyes disperse, what's left is a soft bunch of white tufts. “Oh darling,” God says, “you've always been so contradictory.”

“Stop it – stop! I don’t like this!”

God looks down on Adam with a gaze reminiscent of something stern – a direction given in a busy intersection, the discretion of a ballet teacher correcting her student, an absolute in an equation. She brings Her hands back together gently without taking Her eyes off Adam. Aziraphale’s heart folds back together just the way it’s supposed to be and slides back into its place in his being. Whatever had been holding them back releases and he stumbles back, Crowley steadying him. Crowley hisses as She reaches a hand towards the boy, trying to keep Aziraphale from falling and attempting to intervene with Her touch. He’s too late. Adam takes a futile step back.

God’s fingertips land above his heart gently. His heart, beating fast, stays in its cavity. God smiles, anything outwardly intimidating sneaking its way back into the crevices of Her being, replaced with the warm kindness that She usually exudes.

“Are you afraid of meeting your maker, Adam Young?”

“I’m not afraid!”

“Then what are you feeling?”

“I’m – !” He pauses. The thing is, he’s not afraid. Truly, what he feels is dread. Satan’s presence at the airfield had been so captivatingly fierce, not as a scary monster, but as… his relative. Adam has been spending what time he can surfing the internet trying to understand more about his family ties. He's found and read exactly 271 articles from the perspective of all parties involved in adoption, and he's _still_ confused. He doesn't even know if he wants to talk to his biological relative, let alone have a relationship with him. The young boy, ever so adventurous, finds himself stuck at this intersection. “I’m just a kid.”

God’s eyes slide to Aziraphale, the angel still recovering. “That’s not a bad thing to be, Adam,” She says, parroting Aziraphale’s thought from the moments before Satan had risen from Hell to confront the ruined Apocalypse. “Would you like to see your heart?” Adam hesitates. Just a moment ago, She had been really quite terrifying. “I won’t hurt you, Adam,” She affirms as if She’s read his mind[24]. He looks into Her eyes, and he musters his courage, nodding.

God’s fingers sink in, just a little bit, and pulls. Adam jerks only a little, and he feels… different. God’s fist closes around Adam’s heart, light shining from between Her fingers. Unfurling Her fingers, scales of light flitter into the atmosphere, revealing a golden fire. She turns to the cliff and tosses it gently to the sky. It arcs beautifully, like a falling star. Something in God aches as the four watch Adam’s heart explode into a thousand golden pieces, a firework worthy of praise. It cracks above the ocean like a whip, the sound muted from where they stand on the cliff. Crowley moves forward to place a comforting hand on Adam’s shoulder, and Aziraphale follows suit. The golden flecks of light falling slowly down to the ocean start to move in synchronicity, swirling in circles to project something into the center of where Adam’s heart had initially burst. Shadows in the clouds begin to move. Shapes move into the shape of people, and it’s at that moment that Adam realizes he’s looking at a rudimentary screen.

It’s a scene of him and his friends, younger by quite a few years. They’re laughing at something that Wensleydale has said, the boy attempting to look anything but smug. Adam remembers this day. It was the day that they met.

The scene changes, to a sleepover at Pepper’s house just months later, Adam mediating a conversation between the other two boys over something stupid and pointless that they were arguing about. That was the day that Adam became their leader.

Again, the shadows shift. The day after Pepper’s grandmother died. The three boys had molded themselves into a human blanket, hugging her while she cried. The moment they were separated she had become an absolute mess. Her mother had let go of her, and Pepper had run back to her friends for comfort. Three more tries proved no success. A moment’s talk with the other parents had the other three accompanying the distraught little girl, if they were respectful. Deirdre tagged along to keep watch of the children, but it proved unnecessary. The boys held Pepper and her emotions throughout the ceremony quietly. During the reception, Adam had heard Pepper’s mum talking to her father; “Stop it, da. It’s not like that, they’re children.”

That was the day that they became inseparable. It was the day that they became Them.

“I provided you with the option to meet with him because you deserve to choose your path. Nobody, not even I, should influence your choice. Nothing changes, Adam, whether you choose to meet with my son or not. You stay the same you if that’s the way that you wish to stay. You are still _you._ And you are _extraordinary._ ” The shadows in the clouds begin to fade back into the patterns, and the golden pieces of Adam’s heart begin to float back together. God turns to Adam. He’s not crying, but he’s certainly misty-eyed. She holds out a hand to Her grandson, and he looks up at Her. Only after a moment of consideration does Adam take Her hand, squeezing. Over Her shoulder, Adam’s heart crests in a burning blaze, lighting the horizon in a shimmering golden blast. It floats gently back to God. She studies the heart in Her hand, trying to find the subtle differences between Adam’s heart and Her dear Lucifer’s. Adam’s heart flutters like a butterfly in Her hand instead of the thrumming buzz Lucifer’s emitted, but the gold, the feel, it’s just so obvious that he’s the son of Lucifer, and She aches in the same way as She did before. “I have many things to tell you about my son, if you wish to hear them, Adam. But only if that’s your true heart’s desire.”

“I think that would be alright. And… I’ll make my decision then.” She smiles, and presses Adam’s heart back into his chest where it belongs.

In a blink, God returns them all to the Young kitchen. Adam lets go of Her hand to grab his bag, and he’s disappeared upstairs in a tic. She turns to Aziraphale and Crowley, watching Her with hands clutched. The same intense sternness returns to Her eyes.

“I love you both very much. It is not your place to influence Adam’s choices in this. Can you step back from that?” Aziraphale and Crowley nod.

God nods back and moves to leave the room, brushing past the newly arrived Newt and Anathema with a smile and hello before making Her way up the stairs, ready for some hard questions.

“Another eventful morning, I take it?” Anathema asks.

“Oh, I need tea,” Aziraphale moans.

Upstairs, God and Adam talk for a good while. Tales of the young and enthusiastic Lucifer slide into the story of his fall. Adam asks questions that even God Herself is still seeking the answer to. He nods at those, and he gains a bit of a better understanding of his grandmother and the world, just a little. He moves to the windowsill, She moves to the floor, he moves to his desk, and She leans on his bed again, a dance that harmonizes in a conversation as equals.

Answers, the ones that exist, lead Adam to a conclusion.

Yes.

He’ll see him.

On one condition.

-

Karen has been working at the dinky little pub for going on fifteen years, serving her regulars and snarking her good British snark when necessary. It's a good job, it pays the bills, and the owner, Mark, has never taken advantage of her or any of her waitresses. Sometimes, she steps out from behind the bar to help out with the more unruly of customers.

When the man slogged his way into the bar, she knew she had to take him. He absolutely reeked, not of alcohol like she would usually expect of the fellows who wander in trying to find a spot of swill that they can skip the bill on, but something like rotten meats and a fire far bigger than the ones that her son, Godfrey, tends to in the yard after he gets home from driving his lorry. He smelled like destruction.

She shooed Tallulah away, snatching the menu from her hands in a way that her waitresses know means business, and she scurried away.

“Whatcha want, then?”

“You got coffee?”

His American accent had stunned her at first. She was no stranger to the occasional tourist, but she really hadn't expected it of the bedraggled man in front of her. Maybe had his face been a bit cleaner, and _that smell_ just a bit more toned down, then she would have stopped for a moment and thought about it. In that moment, however, she just wanted to get him out of there, especially if it meant she only had to put on a pot of coffee a bit earlier than she usually would.[25]

“How do you want that?”

“Black as night, sweet as sin.”

“… right."

Karen had kept a careful eye on him, but he didn't do… anything, really. He drank his coffee. He stared out the window through a greasy curtain of hair. He paid his bill in exact change, no tip, the bastard. The only remarkable thing he had done was drop 20p into the jukebox on the way out, playing a song that she hadn't even known was on the thing. Well, that, and… the smile. The smile he had flashed her on the way out. It wasn't even the creepy kind of smile that she usually got from the perverts.

It was empty. And angry. And it promised.

But that was yesterday.

And now is today.

Which is another run of the mill.

Everything is fine.

Totally fine.

Except for the fact that you really can't bring dogs in here, ma'am. Oh, whatever. Not like Mark really gives a toss anyways. Have a seat wherever. Getcha anything? Right.

Shortly after, six peculiar looking people walk in. Well, five peculiar looking people and one normal Joe. The fly hat catches Karen’s eye. Maybe they’re in town for a convention or something. The normal bloke has got a bag, maybe he’s a photographer. But then, as she takes their order[26], she can’t help but realize their collective suspiciousness. None of them can seem to keep their eyes off of the woman and the child. She has to give credit to the lad with sunglasses. At least he knows to pretend like he’s not staring. The woman with the child checks Her mobile, and then checks it again. Karen looks to the front, trying to see if anyone who She might be waiting for is coming down the lane.

She’s not sure what’s happening at first. There’s a blaring note, so loud it’s hard to pinpoint exactly where it’s coming from. The jukebox fizzles. It starts to tune, hissing through static and jumping from clip of song to news broadcast faster and faster until it hits a chord, deep and echoing through the seating area. The song plays for a few moments before it settles on a rumbling lyric. Karen recognizes it the second it starts. It’s the same song that the strange man yesterday had played.

_Now I’ve heard, there was a secret chord that David played and it pleased the Lord, but you don’t really care for music, do ya?_

From Karen’s perspective, the reaction to the oddball electrical surge is wildly exaggerated. The six suspicious subjects jump to their feet, making their way across the pub hurriedly. Instinctively, she pulls the bat under the till out from its nook. Nothin’ good could be coming from this.

_It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth,_

The woman who the group was watching doesn’t move, eyes not quite wide but not resting either, darting as if She sees something invisible. Clearly alarmed, She places both hands on the table. Slowly but surely, She rises from Her chair, in sync with Karen raising her bat to the ready. Instead of a throwing of hands, the woman meets the gaze of the approaching group.

_The minor fall, the major lift, the baffled king composing…_

“We have to get to the Vatican.”

 _Hallelujah_.

The windows bend outwards, and God only has a moment to cover Adam before the glass shatters in.

-

END ACT 1

* * *

[23] And she’s certain that that is just how much sleep they’ve gotten, those scoundrels.

[24] Sort of. Not really, but sort of.

[25] Reserved for the customers who got sloshed on a night out with the lads and needed just a bit of a buzz to get home safely.

[26] One glass of cabernet for the white-haired fellow, a pint of lager for the skinny lad, just a water for the businessman, and a gourmet burger for the greasy one. Nothing for the other two, thanks much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry for the delay. I’ve meant to have this up for months now. A brief explanation if necessary: I’ve been incredibly ill for months and it got bad enough that the doctors started saying the c-word. No worries, that’s now passed, I have a regular old autoimmune disease and it’s solved with a rather inexpensive pill. Whoop-de-doo!
> 
> A few things to square away before I skiddaddle! If you see a spelling error, please do point it out to me, I try to edit as well as I can but my writing client can’t catch everything in autocorrect. I don’t currently have a beta. Much thanks! In terms of when I’m going to be updating: I really don’t have a clear timeline anymore. The ideas I’m forming for this fic are turning big and after my life turning upside down in so many ways, I’m just going to update when I have some time. I love Good Omens and I love this fic for the way it makes me think about life in general, so I’m going to complete it, one way or another. I expect once it airs on BBC I’ll have a kick in the rear to update more often.
> 
> Thank you all for your lovely comments!


	9. Entre'act

I'm not supposed to have a narrative. I’m the recordkeeper, the transcriber of all things happened, the great eye in the sky, I see all the same way that God does, and I protect Her, but I’m no Archangel. Sure, I have theoretically taken the place of… of… well, you know. That doesn’t make me an Archangel. That doesn’t make me Her child in the same manner as Gabriel and Michael and… and Metatron. I just got _lucky._ I made some miracles[1], I gained a following, and I got promoted.

That’s neither here nor there. The point is… the point is…

She's recontextualized Herself.

God is a storyteller, a much better storyteller than I. She weaves Her words like a witch’s spell, a dancing, twisting art that keeps Her as a narrator separate from Her narrative. It's not an unfamiliar concept to human storytelling, inserting the omniscient narrator into the story. But She stays in Heaven. The ruckus stays on Earth.

She’s _there_ now. She’s pulled a full-on Lemony Snicket!

There are plans. There have always been several. They are vague and twisting and ever changing, and She makes sense of them with nothing but a glance. I have watched Her divine fate itself when She’s allowed me the privilege of being there. The Ineffable Plan, as it has been put forth, is ineffable to all but Her. Even I, as close in proximity to Her as I am, cannot discern the tree.

Mother’s den holds Her knowledge of all things happened. It’s a simple place, small in comparison to the Record Room where I sit now. Even the door – which I can see from where I sit – would draw little attention from the unobservant visitor. The fine mist that shapes the floors and walls[2] of Heaven domes around a small garden – a prototype of Eden. There were many prototypes, but this version was the last that Sariel and Lucifer made their mark on. It’s much smaller than the actualized garden, boasting an abnormally large and bountiful pomegranate tree, a circular stone pool with crystal clear water swirling just ever so slightly, a stone bench, and an Ikea desk with antique typewriter and accoutrements included.

The tree, magnificent as it is, bears more than just fruit. God trails Her fingers along the branches, tracing possible futures on Earth, in Heaven, in Hell, and Beyond. This is the Tree of Life. Each twig is according to Her plans, whispering of the goods and the bads and the in-betweens. She tends to each one with such delicacy, the intimacy that She might show to one of Her angels. I’m one of the privileged few who has seen Her work Her magic.

When I’m allowed.

I’m hardly ever allowed.

I am Vretil. I work in this room. I keep the records. I’m an administrative assistant in this labyrinthian maze, transcribing and finding things in the infinitely tall filing cabinets[3] is my game. And She listens to me just as intently as I listen to Her.

There are plans. I know some. Some require my knowledge, so that I may…

…

Let’s just say, assist… that is, if the occasion calls for it.

And from how things have been going, I… I feel that it’s coming. I don’t know – I _can’t_ know – but I feel it.

And I’m scared.

…

Maybe this is why I’m not supposed to have an ‘I’. I ramble about nothing when I speak my own thoughts.

And now for an insider's look into Heaven’s state of being!

BAD! IT'S VERY BAD! EVERYTHING IS VERY, VERY BAD!

The angels of Heaven are staging a holy coup de ’tat at my door. God’s door. Whatever. Michael and Uriel held off all of Heaven while they both could, and in the end it proved futile. Here’s the thing about keeping a crowd of angels calm: the common reassurance amongst our kind involves a reminder of God’s constant presence. One of the first things that Uriel tried was this course of action and it didn’t go very well, you know, considering that God’s constant presence is no longer constant nor is She present in Heaven at this time.

Fucking bullshit. She’s still here. She’s still present. She’s just not _here_ here. We’ve had Her the entire time that we have all been alive, I say it’s about time that the humans get to say that She’s there! A huge overreaction, I say.

… Okay, well, maybe not. My sentiment remains.

Real problem here is Michael and Uriel, and the matter of sanctuary. The two are in a tight spot, hiding in the second of Heaven’s many closets mentioned in this story, the one right between the Swiss Cheese Depository and the Bed, Bath, and Way Beyond. Fuck, the truth hurts: I don’t know how to get them in here without alerting any one of the masses banging on door. Michael and Uriel have always been the most entwined of the Archangels, so they won’t have any problem sticking together for a moment longer, but I don’t want to keep them there if I don’t have to… no matter how awful they’ve been. Cutting off an angel’s wings – what were they thinking saying yes to such an idea?

Well, only three of the usual chayot hakodesh were present for that decision.

Sandalphon was missing.

He has been for some time, away on Mother’s orders. A bit out of character for Her, it is. Instances of Her speaking with anyone outside of Metatron and I have been few and far between. Or, at least to my knowledge. You never really know with Hedk bjfvahjhlvlvmgmvs dk ;RKMM DFK

Bloody fuck, they’ve got a battering ram now. I swear for Her, they’d better not dent that door, it’s the original! Nothing much else to say but this: on with the show, I guess! To the Vatican, where things seem to be just a bit strange...

* * *

[1] Some scary ones, at that.

[2] So to speak.

[3] Used to be that everything was just floating around in a conglomeration of amorphous concepts – “No, no”, I said, “gotta get with the times, put some of this writing on paper, make it easier to find things. No more of this ‘up in the air’ nonsense, it can’t be practical.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> Soon.


End file.
